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A  PERFECT  ADONIS 


BY 


MIRIAM   COLES  HARRIS 

AUTHOR  OF  "  RUTLBDGB" 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
fitoerjjibe  prep?  Cambritrge 


Copyright,  1875, 
BY  G.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1903, 
BY  MIRIAM  COLES  HARRIS 


All  rights  reserved 

GIFT 


H3IS 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 


I. 


|T  was  past  one  o'clock,  and  half-a-dozen  people  on 
the  steps  of  the  hotel  piazza  were  looking  at  their 
watches,  and  saying  that  the  stage  was  late.  The 
coming  of  the  stage  was  a  luminous  point  in  the  day  at  Mil- 
ford  ;  even  dinner  waxed  faint  compared  to  it.  The  corner 
of  the  hotel  commanded  the  street  that  brought  the  stage 
—a  great  broad  street,  with  a  sparse  edging  of  trees,  and 
little  village  shops  and  houses.  The  street  on  which  the 
hotel  stood  was  also  broad  and  straight,  with  again,  sparse 
trees  and  little  houses,  and  shops  and  more  hotels.  Down 
the  street  by  which  the  stage  should  come,  a  youngish  lady 
with  glasses,  and  a  very  near-sighted  manner,  looked  intently, 
if  not  impatiently.  She  was  the  most  prominent  of  the 
group  on  the  piazza ;  in  fact  she  was  always  that,  in  most 
groups.  She  was  about  twenty-five,  not  good-looking,  pro- 
nounced, very  pronounced.  Her  clothes  were  always  hand- 
some, but  so  carelessly  put  on  as  to  be  a  little  outre  at  the 
most,  favorable  moments;  she  had  generally  a  glory  of  hair- 
pins about  her  head,  and  shed  gloves  and  handkerchiefs 
whenever  she  moved,  and,  in  her  near-sighted  way,  was  always 
seen  peering  about  for  lost  things,  and  receiving  them  back 
irith  an  habitual  and  unmeaning  "  O,  thank  you." 
"  For  whom  are  you  looking  to-day,  Miss  Yarian,"  said 

563 


10  A  PERFECT  ADON1& 

one  of  her  neighbors  on  the  piazza,  a  clever  and  hard  work- 
ing mother  of  two  daughters. 

"  For  whom  am  I  looking  ?      O,  didn't  I  tell  you  ?— 
1    thought   everybody  knew  about   it — Mr.   Hunt,  I  told 


'  O,  yes,  indeed — that's  why  I'm  here,  Miss  Yarian.  I'm 
risking  my  dinner  you  see,"  said  a  gentleman,  very  young, 
very  tall,  very  blase. 

"But  who?"  said  the  mother  of  the  daughters,  much 
aroused. 

"  The  prettiest  creature,"  said  Miss  Yarian ;  "  Dorla  St. 
John." 

"  I  never  heard  of  her,",  said  the  mother  briefly. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  She's  never  been  in  society.  She 
is  an  orphan,  has  not  had  anybody  to  take  her  out,  nobody 
belonging  to  her  but  an  oaf  of  a  brother,  who  is  only  in  the 
way,  no  good  to  anybody  ;  not  a  very  reputable  fellow,  I'm 
afraid.  She  doesn't  know  many  people.  Besides,  she'r 
pious." 

This,  Miss  Varian  said  with  simplicity,  as  if  she  had  been 
naming  her  nationality  or  her  parentage.  Mr.  Hunt  thought 
it  funny,  and  laughed ;  when  she  turned  on  him  rather 
sharply. 

"  I  don't  like  her  any  the  less  for  it,"  she  said.  "  I  like 
people  to  carry  out  an  idea,  to  be  something,  even  if  it  is 
only  pious.  Dear  devout  thing;  I'm  not  sure  but  that's 
what  I  fancy  her  for  more  than  anything.  I  like  people 
who  own  a  title;  who  have  pre-empted  some  adjective.  She 
is  the  only  pretty  young  woman  I  know  who  has  the  right 
to  this." 

"  Is  she  so  very  pretty?  "  said  one  of  the  two  daughters, 
creeping  up,  interested,  to  join  in  the  conversation. 

"  You  shall  soon  see  for  yourself ;  she  is  so  fresh,  so  new 
to  things.  I  mean  to  do  everything  for  her.  She  antici- 
pates so  much  pleasure." 

"  Poor  thing,  I'm  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Whymple,  the 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  H 

mother  of  the  two.     "  Such  a  dull  place,  and  snJi  a  dull 
season." 

"  O,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  returned  her  companion. 
"  Fine  weather,  no  end  of  excursions,  and  ever  so  many  nice 
people  coming  next  month." 

"  Well,  if  she  isn't  used  to  much,  this  may  amuse  her." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Varian,  sharply.  "  I'm  used 
f,o  a  good  deal,  and  it  amuses  me." 

This,  nobody  could  dispute ;  Miss  Yarian  was  used  to  a 
good  deal,  and  her  opinion  had  weight.  Very  few  young 
women  had  had  more  amusement,  and  very  few  pursued  it 
more  deliberately.  A  great  deal  of  money,  an  easy,  good- 
natured  mother,  a  temperament  favorable  to  enjoyment,  capi- 
tal health,  a  social  surrounding  of  the  best ; — the  worst  that 
could  be  said  about  her  was  that  she  was  fond  of  change, 
that  she  took  people  up  violently,  and  dropped  them  uncere- 
moniously, that  she  only  cared  to  be  amused,  and  that  she 
was  unconventional,  a  little  meddlesome,  and  a  good  deal  sel* 
willed. 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation,  her  mother  came  lum- 
bering up  the  road  from  the  cottage  where  they  lodged,  with 
a  double-column  novel  under  her  arm,  and  an  umbrella  over 
her  head. 

"  Dinner's  late,"  she  said. 

"  And  the  stage  too,"  said  her  daughter. 

"  O,  I  forgot.     Your  protegee  is  coming  to-day." 

"  O,  Mrs,  Yarian,"  exclaimed  the  languid  Miss  Whymple, 
bringing  her  a  chair,  "  tell  me,  is  she  so  very  pretty." 

"  Pretty,  well,  I  don't  know.  Yes.  I  think  you'd  call 
her  pretty." 

"  O,  what  a  different  story !  "  cried  the  young  lady  with 
ielight.  "  Your  daughter  told  us  she  was  lovelier  than  any 
creature  we  had  ever  seen." 

"  O,  my  dear,  you  must  learn  to  take  Harriet  cwn  gratn* 
wli*.  So  many  swan? ;  I've  got  used  to  them." 


12  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Now,  Mamma,  that's  too  bad.  You  know  you  said  your- 
self she  was  a  beauty." 

« Did  I  ?  Well  then,  I  have  no  doubt  she  is,  or  ** 
thought  her  so,  at  least." 

"  There's  the  stage,"  exclaimed  the  tall  youth,  Mr.  Hunt. 
"  Now  let  us  take  our  salt."  And  he  put  his  eyeglass  to  his 
eye.  Harriet  dropped  hers  and  ran  forward.  The  stage,  in 
a  cloud  of  dust,  rattled  ip  rapidly  ;  a  moment's  pause  at  the 
post-office  across  the  way,  to  throw  out  the  mail,  and  then 
the  four  horses  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

f{  My  dear,  where  are  you,  inside  or  out,"  cried  Harriet, 
in  near-sighted  blindness,  springing  on  the  steps  to  look 
inside,  and  then  flying  forward  among  the  little  crowd  of 
porters  and  loungers  who  had  come  out,  to  command  a  good 
view  of  the  top. 

There  were  a  great  many  people  inside  the  stage,  and  a 
great  many  outside,  and  a  great  deal  of  baggage,  but  among 
the  melee  of  people  and  things,  nobody  on  the  piazza  had  any 
difficulty  in  recognizing  the  pretty  debutante.  She  had  the 
fatal  gift  undoubtedly ;  what  with  height  and  grace,  and  a 
lovely  freshness  of  complexion,  she  justified  her  memorialist's 
description.  She  was  shy  too,  a  lovely  piquante  shyness, 
that  sometimes  seemed  a  sort  of  fear,  sometimes  only  a  glim- 
mering, laughing  doubt  how  to  please  and  what  to  say.  It 
was  rather  an  ordeal,  to  get  down  from  the  stage-top  before 
all  those  people ;  and  her  friend  and  admirer  always  had  the 
effect  of  embarrassing  her,  with  her  enthusiastic  welcomes 
tind  embraces.  Mamma  Varian  gave  her  a  good-natured 
kiss,  and  then  Harriet  led  her  across  the  way  to  the  cottage, 
a.ud  took  her  to  her  room. 

Being  excused  from  dinner  that  day,  and  a  cup  of  tea 
ordered  by  the  maid,  Dorla  was  left  alone,  and  shut  herself 
into  her  little  room,  with  a  sensation  of  relief.  As  sensitive 
people  generally  are,  she  was  tired  by  the  journey  and  the 
arrival,  and  had  an  excited  headache.  She  was  wretchedly 
ili indent,  and  felt  out  of  place,  and  very  much  afraid,  mon 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  1J 

of  her  friends  even  than  of  the  strangers  she  was  to  meet. 
She  was  so  much  younger  than  Harriet,  that  she  naturally 
would  never  have  aj  proached  her ;  but  she  had  been  elected 
to  the  post  of  favorite,  and  had  no  choice  but  to  occupy 
it.  The  life  she  led  at  home  was  so  dull,  this  was  step- 
ping into  another  world.  Without  a  mother  since  her  four- 
teenth year,  with  no  memory  of  her  father,  and  with  a  brother 
who  was  a  bitter  disgrace  to  her,  and  never  a  companion, 
she  led  a  singularly  restricted  life  in  the  midst  of  a  gay  city. 
Her  brother  was  five  years  older;  and  his  disappointing 
course  had  given  her,  almost  in  childhood,  an  unnatural  sad- 
ness. Her  world  had  contained  three  people,  Mamma,  Harry 
and  herself.  Poor  little  child ;  at  fifteen  it  seemed  to  her 
that  one-third  of  the  world  was  silent,  senseless  and  cold, 
gone  some  strange  whither,  one-third  reckless  and  horrible, 
and  the  other  third  amazed  and  left  alone.  That  is  the  way 
things  looked  to  her  when  she  was  very  young.  She  was 
very  young  still,  but  she  was  beginning  to  acknowledge  to 
herself,  there  were  people  in  the  world  whom  she  had  not 
taken  into  her  account,  at  fifteen.  Harriet,  for  instance,  and 
all  her  set  of  rollicking,  merry,  pleasure-seeking  friends. 
They  were  going  to  do  her  a  great  deal  of  good,  no  doubt,  in 
setting  her  right  about  the  smallness  of  her  own  experiences, 
and  the  extent  and  variety  of  human  nature,  but  all  the 
same,  they  were  very  foreign  to  her,  <lnd  very  disagreeable 
at  times. 

About  three  o'clock,  Harriet,  not  having  any  nerves,  and 
never  feeling  tired,  came  back  and  seated  herself  in  the 
chair  by  the  window,  and  proceeded  to  entertain  her  guest. 

"  Now,  I  suppose  you  want  to  know  what  sort  of  a  time 
you're  going  to  have,  lay  dear  ?  Well,  in  the  first  place 
you're  going  to  fall  in  love  with  the  place.  Don't  you 
think  it's  charming  and  picturesque  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  ;  not  exactly.  The  drive  from  the  railroad  if 
very  Dice,  but  I  am  afraid  I  think  the  village  is  rather  fo* 
lorn ;  don't  you  ?  " 


14  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

tr  Oh,  the  village,  the  hotels  and  all  that.  Yes,  quit* 
forlorn,  but  the  drives,  the  country ;  you  could  not  ask  any- 
thing lovelier  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it." 

"  And  the  people  ?  " 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  T  am  a  little  bit  afraid  of  thenij 
I  think." 

*'  Oh,  you  needn't  be  ;  I'll  take  care  of  you.  They're  all 
ready  to  tear  you  to  pieces  because  you're  such  a  beauty." 

"  Now  you  promised  never —  " 

"  But  I  don't  mean  they  shall  hurt  you.  I  think  it  is  ex- 
citing, and  you  are  my  great  card  this  summer.  With  you 
I  mean  to  punish  the  Whymples,  and  put  the  Duncans 
down.  E  shall  make  you  a  second  Attila,  a  scourge.  It 
will  right  the  wrongs  of  years.  My  child,  you  must  do  ex- 
actly as  I  tell  you,  and  we  will  carry  Milford.  I  don't  see 
why  we  shouldn't.  With  the  carriage,  and  you,  and  Jack 
Cullen  coining  next  we<-k,  I  don't  see  what  can  stop  us." 

"  What's  the  carriag6  to  do  with  it  ?  and  what  have  I  ?  " 
said  Dorla.  fl  and  who  is  f  ack  Cullen  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  tht  carriage  has  to  do  with  it.  You 
don't  know  Milford.  It's  t  place  where  people  come  when 
they  don't  want  an  expensive  summer.  It's  just  a  little 
village  overflowed  by  summer  people,  primitive  and  half 
alive ;  not  an  indigenous  swell,  nor  a  pair  of  fine  horses, 
nor  any  style  but  what  people  bring ;  and  as  I  said,  people 
come  for  an  economical  summer,  and  don't  bring  their  maids 
or  their  horses,  and  there  are  not  four  private  carriages 
here ;  that  gives  ours  weight.  Then  we  have  a  parlor,  and 
can  leave  people  out  if  they  don't  do  as  we  direct.  And 
you,  oh,  you  are  no  end  of  a  card.  You  see  there  are  so 
many  prettyish  girls  here,  but  none  that  are  new,  none  that 
amount '  to  anything  for  a  sensation.  You've  seen  them  all 
winter  in  silks  and  serges,  and  now  you  see  them  all  sum* 
mer  in  grenadines  and  muslins.  The  same  dogs  with  differ- 
>nt  coHars.  Positively  I  should  think  the  men  would  de- 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  15 

test  tke  sight  of  them ;  I  know  I  do.  And  no  force,  no  origi 
nality ;  just  prettyish,  fastish,  stylish ;  that's  the  best  you 
can  say  of  any  of  them.  Now  you,  you  know,  are  some- 
thing in  your  own  way ;  a  sort  of  an  idea  walking  about 
among  vacancies,  and  I  hope  of  all  things  you  won't  lose 
this ;  we  must  try  to  carry  it  out.  I  want  you  to  look  <U- 
vote  whenever  you're  not  in  evening  dress.  You  must 
wear  white  a  good  deal,  and  beads  and  a  cross." 

"  Harriet,  don't  talk  in  that  way.  I  don't  think  it  is 
right." 

"  O,  well,  of  course.  No  matter.  Then  about  Jack. 
He  is  a  great  favorite,  and  good  looking,  and  besides  he 
brings  his  horse.  He  stays  with  us,  and  don't  'you  see  ?  he 
is  very  important." 

«  I  see." 

"  There  are  not  many  men,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  I 
don't  want  to  have  you  anticipate  more  pleasure  than  you'll 
get,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  think  about  that.  I  assure  you  I  like 
it  better  without.  Just  quiet  country  days,  and  excursions 
in  the  woods.  You  told  me  there  were  lovely  woods." 

"  Oh,  lovely !  But  then  we  want  something  besides  that. 
I'll  arrange  it  all.  Let  me  tell  you  about  the  men."  Dorla 
winced.  "  The  men "  sounded  so  hideously  to  her.  She 
wondered  if  Harriet  would  call  them  so,  if  she  had  seen 
some  of  them — Harry's  companions — as  she  had,  in  some 
horrid  and  never-to-be-forgotten  encounters. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  about  the  men.  There  is  first,  the 
creature  whom  you  saw  on  the  piazza,  Dalton  Hunt ;  there 
is  no  telling  what  he  may  be  when  he  is  of  age.  He  has  a 
little  sense,  but  is  so  spoiled  here  we  can't  guess  what  he 
might  have  been;  a  loafing,  lounging  fellow,  with  a  pipe 
and  a  hammock,  and  a  blue  veil  tied  round  his  hat.  Two  or 
three  girls  always  devoted  to  him.  Then  there's  GuymarcL 
A  handsome  young  widower,  clever,  well-mannered,  but  no 
more  feeling  than  so  much  gutta-peicha.  You  must  nev*»» 


16  A  PERFEOT  ADONI& 

look  for  anything  from  him.  He  is  ambitious,  and  meant 
to  have  his  good  time,  and  be  somebody  of  importance  when 
he  marries  for  the  second  time.  Then  there  are  two  old 
bachelors  whom  I  despise.  Dull  old  creatures.  But  we 
must  not  be  particular.  And — well — really  I  believe  that's 
ail  there  are ;  at  least,  all  that  are  here  for  the  summer." 

"Oh,  Harriet!  I'm  sure  they're  quite  enough.  Do  lei 
the  Whymples  have  them,  and  let  us  try  the  woods." 

"  Oh,  now,  my  dear,  don't  you  go  to  being  sentinvental 
and  shy,  and  spoil  it  all.  It's  all  very  well  to  look  so ;  that 
you  can't  help,  but  I  know  you  have  a  spice  of  sin  and  or- 
iginality in  you,  that  you  haven't  yet  quite  prayed  away. 
Voila  !  It  'shall  be  my  business  to  bring  it  out  and  whet 
it  up.  There,  now,  I'll  go,  for  I  see  you  look  wretched  and 
want  to  start  for  home  the  next  train.  I'll  leave  you  with 
your  good  little  books,  and  not  come  back  till  tea-time. 
Heigho !  How  many  of  them  have  you  brought  ?  My  dear, 
do  you  have  to  pray  out  of  all  these  every  day  ?  Little 
red  edges  and  little  crosses ;  what  a  family  likeness  between 
them  all.  What's  this  one  that  you've  taken  to  bed  with 
you  ?  Litanies,  what  a  lot  of  them,  intercessions,  prepara- 
tions, daily  devotions;  it's  all  Greek  to  me.  Ah,  I'm 
right,  ( from  eastern  sources.'  So  it  has  been  Greek,  what- 
ever it  is  now.  There!  I  won't  bother  you  any  more. 
Put  the  Greek  away  and  go  to  sleep.  Good-bye." 

Harriet  presently  put  her  head  back  in  the  door  to  tell 
Dorla  not  to  dress  that  evening. 

"  For,"  she  said,  «  we'll  take  a  drive  quietly  by  ourselves  at 
six,  and  Rosa  shall  make  us  a  cup  of  tea  over  here  when  we 
get  back,  and  I  won't  take  you  to  the  hotel  till  to  morrow. 
Somehow  you  don't  look  quite  as  well  as  usual,  to-day.  1 
suppose  it's  the  sun,  and  riding  on  top  of  the  stage  ;  and  I 
shan't  take  you  over  till  you  get  your  complexion  back,  ii 
you  have  to  stay  in  the  cottage  for  a  week.  Rosa  will  get 
TOU  some  sour  cream,  if  the  flush  don't  go  off  before  bed 
time.  Bve-bye." 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  17 

"  She'll  kill  me ! "  cried  poor  Dorla,  throwing  herself 
back  on  the  bed,  as  the  door  finally  closed  across  the  pas- 
sage. And  she  nearly  cried,  bending  the  little  "  good  book  " 
almost  double  in  her  hands.  She  was  stung  all  over,  and 
smarting  with  minute  pains.  She  was  shy,  proud,  sensi 
tive,  conscientious,  and  here  she  was  patronized,  paraded, 
probed ;  and  her  best  unspoken  feelings  profanely  made  np 
into  the  common  talk.  "  I  ought  not  to  have  come,"  she  said. 
"  The  only  safe  place  for  me  is  where  I  don't  see  anybody. 
If  she  says  another  word  about  my  skin  I  will  go  home. 
It's  bad  enough  to  care  about  my  looks  myself,  without 
having  people  talk  about  them  in  this  coarse  way."  And 
she  applied  herself  to  her  little  book,  to  drive  the  monstrous 
thoughts  away.  Poor  child.  This  she  called  temptation. 
She  had  not  gone  very  far  in  her  matter  yet. 


WEEK  had  passed,  and  this  is  the  way  things 
stood.  Harriet  was  satisfied,  Dorla  was  dazzled, 
and  frightened,  and  nncertainly  pleased.  She  had 
come  from  something  duller  than  a  nun's  life,  and  she  was 
in  the  midst  of  a  little  world  of  excitements,  frivoli- 
ties and  strifes,  of  which  she  was  the  centre  figure.  A 
score  or  so  of  idle  women,  and  a  dozen  or  two  of  idle  men, 
ralked  of  her,  and  looked  at  her,  and  schemed  about  her 
all  day  long.  Thanks  to  Harriet's  abilities  as  stage  manager, 
she  was  a  success,  a  sensation.  The  people  looked  at  her 
from  the  little  hotel  piazzas  as  she  drove  past  in  Mrs. 
Ararian's  fine  open  carriage,  or  as  she  walked  through  the 
village  with  Harriet  and  two  or  three  of  the  few  gentlemen 
who  were  in  the  place.  They  speculated  upon  the  chances 
»f  her  going  to  the  Bluff  in  the  evening,  or  to  the  Glen  in 
khe  morning.  It  was  something  to  be  introduced  to  her, 
for  Harriet  kept  her  very  close,  and  would  not  let 


18  A  PERFECT  ADON1B. 

be  profanely  known.  She  made  it  a  point  never  to  spent 
an  evening  at  the  hotels  but  on  occasions  of  hops  and 
special  entertainments.  Then  she  took  Dorla  in  full  dress, 
and  looking  her  best,  and  went  rather  late,  and  there  was 
always  a  hush  and  a  murmur  when  they  came  into  the 
room,  in  the  rear  of  the  good-natured  mamma,  and  attended 
by  two  or  three  favored  gentlemen.  The  other  evenings 
they  spent  in  the  parlor  or  porch  of  their  little  cottage,  with 
a  few  people  invited ;  they  ate  indifferent  ice-cream  from 
the  old  Frenchman's  across  the  street,  they  compounded 
strange  drinks,  they  improvised  suppers  with  cold  chicken, 
and  sardines,  and  Albert  biscuit.  Spoons  were  short,  and 
glasses  had  often  to  be  washed,  but  it  was  convivial,  uncon- 
ventional. 

"  C  was  the  company  highly  delighted 
Who  came  to  the  feast  upon  being  invited." 

Happy  they  who  had  the  entree  to  the  shabby  little 
parlor  j  happy  they  who  could  say,  nonchalantly,  "  at  the 
Varians'  cottage  the  other  night ; "  happy  they  who  could 
familiarly  lift  the  latch  of  the  crazy  little  gate,  and  sit 
down  in  the  mouldy  little  porch  if  they  found  nobody  at 
home.  How  much  of  this  was  owing  to  Dorla's  attractions, 
and  how  much  to  Harriet's  abilities,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
say. 

Dorla  certainly  had  great  beauty,  and  dressed  herself  very 
well ;  this  was  one  of  her  gifts.  She  was  very  fresh,  and, 
with  all  her  piety,  sufficiently  piquant.  For  that  spice  of 
sin  and  originality,  on  which  Harriet  had  congratulated  her- 
Belf,  contributed  a  good  deal  to  her  success.  Her  little 
Sashes  of  sarcasm  and  of  temper,  and  her  sad  little  repent 
ances,  were  fascinating.  Everything  she  did  was  pretty  and 
unusual.  Then  she  had  around  her  some  of  the  entourage 
;>f  style,  and  high  life,  and  fashion,  albeit  in  a  rickety  little 
Cottage  at  Milford.  A  maid  followed  her  about  with  shawls 
aid  shades,  and  a  man  in  livery  delivered  her  littlo  notes, 


A  PERFECT  ADOm&  19 

WTien  she  drove  it  was  in  a  broad,  luxurious  carriage,  with 
horses  that  stepped  high  and  shook  their  glittering  harness, 
not  in  a  rumbling,  ludicrous  old  hack,  such  as  the  cthe* 
pretty  girls  in  Milford  had  to  drive  in,  with  horses  that 
haunted  the  imagination  sorrowfully. 

Then,  as  to  Harriet's  share  in  the  success.  She  was  na- 
turally clever,  and  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  life.  She  was 
not  jealous  of  Dorla's  good  looks,  for  she  had  none  of  that 
meanness  of  disposition.  What  she  liked  was  "  a  good 
time,"  and  power,  and  plenty  of  people  about  her  ready  to 
acknowledge  her  importance.  She  understood  character  su- 
perficially, but  well  enough  to  make  her  full  of  clever  de- 
vices. Nothing  pleased  her  better  than  to  be  putting  some- 
body through  a  summer  or  a  winter,  as  she  was  now  doing 
for  Dorla.  It  gave  her  an  aim  and  an  occupation,  which 
things  she  needed  very  much.  She  thought  she  was  doing  a 
great  deal  of  good,  and  was  accordingly  complacent.  Her 
creed  was  humanitarian.  Like  a  great  many  of  the  bene- 
factors of  the  human  family  who  do  not  consult  heaven,  she 
did  considerable  mischief.  "  I  don't  mind  exerting  myself," 
she  said,  "  to  give  this  poor  child  a  little  pleasure."  And 
BO  she  fastened  upon  her  a  sorrow  that  might  be  lifelong. 
"  It  is  a  shame  to  see  that  pretty  creature  shut  up  in  a  dull 
prison  in  the  city,"  she  said,  while  she  was  officiously  forg- 
ing for  her  the  links  that  entered  into  her  soul.  It  made  it 
a  little  better  that  she  did  it  unconsciously :  but  it  is  bitter 
to  take  a  wound  even  from  a  careless  hand.  *  *  * 

Among  the  men  who  surrounded  them,  there  was  net  one 
who  put  Dorla's  heart  in  any  danger.  Indeed  they  were 
only  society  men,  loafing  away  their  summer,  and  were 
glad  to  be  amused,  and  even  ready  to  fall  in  love  a  little. 
Dorla's  heart  fluttered  at  each  new  name,  but  subsided  into 
*  very  dull  and  monotonous  beat  after  a  little  moment  of  ac- 
quaintance. 

"  They  bore  me  terribly,  Harriet,"  she  said,  in  confidence 
•'  Can't  we  do  without  thorn  ?  " 


20  A  PERFECT  ADONIB. 

This  was  treason,  and  ingratitude,  and  Harriet  was  ver» 
angry. 

Dorla  did  not  say  anything  about  it  any  more,  but  learned 
to  be  rather  amused  by  them,  and  faintly  coquettish 
(rather  faintly),  and  quite  eager  at  times  that  they 
should  not  go  over  to  the  enemy.  The  enemy  meant  the 
two  Whymples,  and  a  pretty  blonde  from  Philadelphia,  and 
several  commonplace  and  envious  young  women  whom  she 
hardly  knew.  Dorla  became  a  little  blood-thirsty,  witnes- 
sing so  many  battles  raged  around  her ;  she  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  the  conflict  sometimes  with  an  energy  that  surprised 
herself,  afterwards  she  was  very  much  ashamed ;  all  the  same, 
she  was  injured  a  little  by  it,  as  everybody  must  be  by  this 
semi- watering-place  life,  in  which  every  man's  or  rather 
every  woman's  hand  is  against  her  neighbor,  and  tongues 
have  utter  license,  and  the  business  of  every  hour  is  only 
to  get  rid  of  it. 

One  day  they  were  sitting  in  the  Glen  together,  Dorla 
and  her  patroness.  It  was  quite  a  rare  thing  for  them  to  be 
alone  together,  they  always  had  some  followers.  That 
morning  they  had  sent  away  their  followers  to  see  about 
wagons  for  a  picnic,  and  Dorla  was  trying  to  read  to  Harriet, 
who  was  trying  to  embroider.  The  Glen  was  cool  and 
shady,  the  stream  at  their  feet  ran  dark  and  deep  under  the 
pines. 

"  Somehow  I  don't  care  for  reading,"  said  Dorla,  listlessly 
laying  down  the  book.  She  had  laid  it  down  a  dozen  times 
that  morning,  when  Harriet  had  interrupted  her  to  talk 
about  the  little  hostilities  and  rivalries  of  the  hotels.  "  I 
really  think,  Harriet,  it  belittles  one  very  much  to  live  the 
sort  of  life  we're  leading.  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  there  were 
not  anything  in  the  world  of  greater  interest  than  the  suc- 
cess of  the  picnic  to-morrow,  or  more  majestic  than  putting 
tfovn  the  Whymples." 

**  Oh,  my  dear,"  said,  Harriet  impatiently,  tangling  her 
silk  in  her  disapprobation, "  don't  begin  to  moralize.  That's 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  2J 

just  like  Felix,  he's  always  proving  the  littleness  of  thicgi 
to  me.  For  my  part  I  mean  to  think  the  thing  I'm  doing  is 
the  most  important  occurrence  of  the  century,  and  nobody 
shall  disillusionize  me." 

Felix  was  Harriet's  only  brother,  two  years  her  senior,  a 
handsome  young  lordling  of  twenty-seven,  with  so  much 
money  and  so  much  leisure,  and  so  much  good  looks,  as  to 
>>e  greatly  bored.  He  had  been  for  several  years  in  Europe, 
and  did  not  talk  of  coming  home.  In  fact,  the  easy  mam- 
ma and  the  busy  sister  were,  each  in  their  way,  apt  to  put 
him  out  of  humor.  Of  course,  though,  they  were  fond 
of  him  in  their  own  way,  and  Harriet  talked  of  him  ad 
nauseum,  some  of  her  companions  thought.  Dorla  always 
was  an  interested  listener ;  she  longed  to  see  this  prince 
among  men  ;  she  kept  his  picture  in  her  writing  desk,  and 
made  Harriet  read  all  his  letters  to  her.  She  had  made  up 
a  little  romance  to  herself  about  this  brother,  and  had  more 
interest  in  him  than  in  all  the  people  round  her.  When 
Harriet  introduced  his  name  on  this  occasion,  her  listless 
manner  vanished,  and  she  said : 

"  Well  if  he  doesn't  find  watering-place  life  good  for  his 
soul's  health,  I'm  sure  I  should  agree  with  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  sure  you  and  he  would  suit  each  other 
a  merveille.  But  mind  you,  he  isn't  any  saint,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  quiet  young  sinner,  to  the  best  of  my  belief;  so 
quiet  that  you'd  probably  never  find  it  out,  however.  But 
in  your  aesthetics,  your  nonsense  about  the  woods,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  your  horror  of  noisy  people,  you  would 
agree  exactly.  I  think  I'll  keep  Felix  for  you,  you're  just 
Iris  style  and  just  the  coloring  to  suit  his  eye." 

"  Ah,  thank  you  !  It's  so  probable  he  will  be  kept ;  it  is 
U.ore  than  likely  that  he  is  engaged  to  be  married  at  this 
very  moment."  (ThL>  was  to  be  assured  for  the  great 
many-th  time  that  there  wasn't  a  possibility  of  such  a 
thing  occurring,  that  the  only  danger  was  he  wo*ald  not  ever 
marry  ) 


22  A  PERFECT  ADONlb. 

"Well,"  with  a  laugh,  "that  doesn't  make  it  any  bettei 
for  me ;  what's  the  use  in  talking  about  him  to  me  if  he 
isn't  ever  going  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  when  he  sees  you  he'll  change  his  mind  en- 
tirely. He  delights  in  hair  of  just  your  shade  of  brown." 

"  Well,  that  must  be  because  it  is  so  like  his  own." 

"  His  own !  Why,  his  is  light.  How  often  must  I  tel1 
you." 

tf  It's  dark  in  his  picture,  I  am  sure." 

<£  Why,  here,"  said  Harriet,  taking  from  her  dress  a  locket, 
"  here  it  is.  Do  you  call  that  dark  or  light  ?"  Dorla  bent 
over  it.  The  locket  was  a  curious  old  fashioned  thing,  two 
large  clear  ovals  of  crystal,  bound  in  reddish  gold.  Pressed 
between  them  there  was  a  single  yellow  curl.  The  locket  wa? 
fastened  to  a  gold  chain,  thin  'and  fine. 

"  What  a  quaint,  old  locket,"  she  cried  taking  it  in  her 
hand. 

"  Yes,  but  the  hair ;  I  suppose  you  call  that  yellow,  do 
you  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  believe  I  must.  But  no  doubt  it  was  cut  off 
when  he  was  a  little  child." 

"  The  day  before  he  went  away  to  college.  It  may  be  a 
shade  or  two  darker  now,  but  still  it's  unquestionably  light." 

"  Harriet,  I  think  I  like  yellow-haired  men." 

"You  do?  Well, there  is  Mr.  Oliver,  he  will  be  glad  to 
know  it." 

"  I  did  not  say  mouse  color.  Come  let  me  wear  this 
locket,  it  is  so  very  odd  I  like  it." 

She  did  not  wait  for  permission,  but  clasped  the  thin 
0/iain  round  her  throat,  and  cast  admiring  looks  down  on 
the  locket. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Harriet,  "  you  shall  wear  it  till  Felix 
tomes  home,  or  till  you  hear  he  has  a  wife." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Dorla. 

And  then  Mr.  Oliver,  of  the  mouse  colored  hair,  came 
iown  the  path  to  join  them,  and  Dorla  tried  to  be  inter 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  23 

wted  in  tne  programme  for  the  picnic,  and  was  very  gentle 
•nd  polite,  but  rather  absent-minded,  as  she  let  him  can? 
her  shawl  and  book,  and  give  her  his  arm  across  the  bridge 
and  up  the  steep  path  to  the  village  street.  He  was  an  el- 
derly, estimable  young  man,  but  very  unexciting. 


[BOUT  the  middle  of  August,  however,  a  crisis  came 
in  the  smooth  successes  of  the  Yarian  faction ;  a 
certain  pretty  Mrs.  Seymour  arrived,  accompanied 
by  wagon  loads  of  cribs,  mattresses,  bath  tubs,  peram- 
bulators and  nursery  appliances.  No  one  could  appre- 
hend social  rivalry  from  such  a  source.  Five  children 
under  seven  years  ought  to  be  enough  to  occupy  the  time 
of  even  a  pretty  woman  who  has  been  a  belle.  Everybody 
took  to  her,  she  was  naive,  she  was  popular,  she  talked  to 
everybody  a  cceur  ouvert  •  she  dealt  sweetness  right  and 
left.  She  took  counsel  of  the  old  ladies  about  household 
grievances ;  she  talked  by  the  hour  to  the  young  mothers 
about  farina,  and  barley  flour,  and  rational  food  for  in- 
fants. She  sighed  a  little  with  the  young  girls  about 
her  past  successes,  as  if  they  were  things  of  the  dim,  dim 
past.  The  men  she  coddled ;  asking  them  over  to  her 
cottage,  and  making  them  nice  things  in  a  silver  porringer 
over  a  little  lamp  if  they  were  not  well,  making  them  very 
comfortable  in  her  easy  chairs,  and  being  devoted  to  the 
smell  of  smoke ;  getting  them  to  talk  a  great  deal  about 
themselves,  and  being  very  sympathetic. 

Every  one  was  sorry  for  her ;  it  was  so  hard  for  such  a 
Delicate  woman  to  have  such  a  host  of  children,  and  such 
sickly  children  too.  According  to  her  story  they  had  the 
croup,  some  of  them,  every  night,  but  she  was  the  heroine 
»f  all  her  little  narratives,  and  vou  thought  a  great  deal  more 
about  her  suffering  than  the  children's.  She  resolved  at 


24  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

these  frequently  recurring  crises  to  telegraph  for  the  MEJOT, 
and  then  heroically  resolved  not.  These  things  were  talked 
about  a  great  deal.  This  went  on  for  two  or  three  weeks  ; 
everybody  was  running  about  on  her  little  errands,  and 
running  to  see  how  the  sickest  baby  was.  After  these  har« 
rowing  nights,  people  sent  for  her  to  drive,  and  she  always 
went.  They  begged  her  to  come  up  to  the  hotel  for  a  little 
relaxation  in  the  evenings,  and  she  always  came.  They 
brought  her  novels  to  divert  her  mind  with,  and  she  always 
read  them. 

It  began  to  dawn  on  people's  minds  after  a  month  of  this, 
that  Mrs.  Seymour's  cares  did  not  sit  heavy  on  her,  much  as 
she  talked  about  them ;  that  croup  and  cholera-infantum 
had  never  yet  interfered  with  any  of  her  plans  of  pleasure ; 
that  her  cottage,  overflowing  with  babies  and  nurses  as  it 
was,  was  beginning  to  be  the  most  popular  cottage  in  the 
place.  All  the  gentlemen  gravitated  to  it  fatally  for  their 
after-dinner  smokes  and  for  their  after-supper  chats  ;  and  a 
few  young  women,  with  disinterested  tenderness,  were  always 
to  be  found  there,  to  lighten  the  burden  of  her  heavy  cares. 
The  old  ladies  were  no*  quite  so  enthusiastic  as  at  first,  and 
the  young  mothers  felt  they  had  been  swindled. 

Harriet  Varian  was  angry, — no  words  can  tell  how  angry. 

"That  fraud,  Dorla,  that  fraud.  She  and  her  ever- 
lasting babies  have  been  a  corps  of  sappers  and  miners,  and 
have  nearly  done  the  work  for  us.  Why  absolutely,  if  I 
hadn't  drummed  up  Oliver  last  night,  we  should  not  have 
had  a  soul  to  speak  to  all  the  evening.  Rosa  says  there 
were  twenty  people  there  last  night,  and  they  didn't  go  away 
till  half-past  twelve  at  least.  And  they  are  actually  going 
to  have  a  dance  to-night,  and  a  supper  at  Fauchere's.  Oi 
i/ourse  they've  left  us  out,  for  I  haven't  spoken  to  her  for  a 
week.  But  all  the  men  are  going,  and  we  are  in  a  pretty 
fix.  She  has  even  roped  in  Oliver,  though  I  know  he  doesn't 
to  go.  We  might  as  well  give  up  !  And  it  has 
been  sprung  upon  us."  Harriet  was  particularly  bitter 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  25 

for  she  had  been  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  admirers  of 
Mrs.  Seymour  on  her  first  arrival. 

"  There  is  just  this  about  it,"  she  said  with  emphasis, 
"  We  must  do  something  for  this  evening,  or  we  are  beaten 
off  the  field.  Where  shall  we  go  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  We  can't  have  anything  very  general,  can  we  ?"  said 
Dorla,  with  a  littlo  laugh.  "  Considering  we  have  snubbed 
all  the  ladies,  and  the  gentlemen  have  all  snubbed  us." 

Harriet  knit  her  brows.  This  was  too  serious  for  light 
words.  Again  she  said,  "  if  I  can't  get  up  something  for  to- 
night, I  will  go  home  to-morrow." 

Then  Dorla  knew  she  must  not  laugh  any  more,  but  must 
apply  her  mind  to  business.  "  I  have  it,"  exclaimed 
Harriet  at  last,  dashing  her  glasses  away  from  her  eyes,  and 
springing  up.  "  I  have  it,  Dorla  ;  your  portfolio."  Dorla 
brought  it,  begging  to  know  what  she  had  got. 

"  I  want  you  to  write  a  note,"  she  said,  "  at  once,  to  that 
young  Rotherrnel,  who  was  so  taken  with  you,  at  the  Falls 
the  other  day,  and  invite  him  to  go  with  us  to  take  tea  at 
the  Brewery  to-night." 

"  I  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort,"  said  Dorla,  flushing, 
and  speaking  with  unusual  promptness. 

"  You  must,  you  shall,"  exclaimed  Harriet  with  vehe- 
mence. "  Your  foolish  prudery  will  spoil  everything.  You 
expect  everything  to  come  to  you  and  you  not  move  a  finger. 
If  all  girls  did  as  you  do,  I'm  afraid  there  would  not  be 
much  animation  in  society.  Dorla,  you've  got  to  write  this 
note  for  me." 

«  You  needn't  ask  me." 

11 1  think  this  is  a  pretty  return  for  all  I've  done  for  you 
kLis  summer." 

"  Harriet,  I  knew  you  have  been  everything  that's  kind — 
but—" 

"  But  you  won't  do  the  first  thing  that  I  ask  you  to." 

"  Harriet,  I  cartt  do  such  a  thing  as  that.  It  would  be  posi 
li  rely  indecent;.  I  haven't  spoken  to  him  more  than  twice. 


96  A  PERFECT  ADOtflS. 

"  No,  but  you  know  he's  very  much  in  love  with  you.* 

"  So  much  the  worse." 

"  Simpleton !  How  !  He'll  think  everything  you  do  is 
right,  and  will  be  in  a  seventh  heaven.  Besides,  you'll 
probably  never  see  him  after  you  go  away  from  here,  and 
never  hear  his  name,  and  if  there  were  anything  improper  in 
it  (which  there  isn't),  nobody'll  ever  be  the  wiser,  for  Ut 
won't  talk  about  it ;  he  is  far  too  shy,  and  we  needn't  say 
my  thing  if  we  do  not  choose.  He's  just  a  country  fellow, 
[  know  that,  but  he  is  very  handsome,  and  has  niceish  sort 
of  manners  for  a  person  brought  up  here,  and  the  Whymples 
and  the  rest  of  them  would  have  been  very  glad  to  get  hold 
of  him,  but  he  wouldn't  take  any  notice  of  their  overtures. 
You  know  they  made  a  great  point  of  getting  him  for  the 
tableaux,  but  he  refused  point  blank." 

"  Maybe  he'd  refuse  us  point  blank,"  said  Dorla,  looking 
down. 

"  O,  no  danger,"  returned  Harriet.  "  You  know  yourself 
how  he  has  been  hanging  round  the  hotel  ever  since  your 
little  adventure  with  him  at  the  Falls.  Before  that,  you 
know  he  hardly  ever  came  here,  and  we  only  saw  him  driv- 
ing past,  or  at  his  office,  and  once  or  twice  at  church." 

Dorla  knew  that  perfectly  well,  and  a  good  deal  more. 
She  knew  how  the  handsome  young  fellow,  semi-farmer, 
semi-lawyer,  had  haunted  her  steps,  since  that  little  adventure 
that  had  made  them  acquainted.  How  honest  and  real  his 
admiration  was,  and  how  much  more  she  enjoyed  it,  than 
the  insipid  compliments  of  the  men  about  her.  This  had 
really  been  a  little  romance  to  her,  of  which  she  had  not 
talked  to  Harriet,  of  course.  She  thought  of  the  way  in 
which  he  had  colored  and  been  agitated,  when  she  had  met 
him  at  the  steps  of  the  little  law  office  in  the  village,  and 
had  spoken  to  him,  and  then  fancied  how  any  one  could  dare 
to  ask  of  her  the  enormity  of  sending  him  a  note. 

"  I'll  do  anything  else  for  you  Harriet,  but  I  won't  do 
Ifaat." 


A  PERFECT  ADONI&  97 

rt  DorU,  I  think  you  are  as  ungrateful  as  yen  are  prudish. 

A.ny  other  girl  would  do  it." 

"  Get  some  other  girl  to  do  it  then." 

tf  I  wish  from  my  heart  I  had  some  other  girl  to  ask,  and 
that  I  hadn't  turned  everybody  out  for  you.  This  will  be  the 
end  of  everything.  If  I  don't  succeed  in  getting  up  this 
party,  you  may  bid  good-bye  to  Milford,  foi  I'll  pack  my 
trunks  to-morrow.  Think,  Dorla,  what  a  nice  plan  this  will 
be.  I've  made  it  all  out.  It  will  just  upset  the  Seymour's 
supper,  and  give  us  the  eclat  of  an  exclusive,  charming 
little  expedition.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  make  Jack 
Cullen  break  with  them,  and  go  with  us.  I  think  he's 
rather  taken  with  the  little  humbug,  but  he  knows  too 
much  to  make  me  angry  ;  our  house  in  town  is  something  to 
him;  he  will  not  dare  say  no.  Then,  there  is  Oliver.  I  think 
he'd  rather  go  with  us,  it  only  needs  a  word  to  make  him  come. 
I'm  sure  of  him.  There  are  three  men.  Then  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bishop,  jolly,  clever  people — and  the  Da  vises,  who  are 
always  trumps.  Then  you  see  it's  lovely  moonlight.  We 
can  drive  round  the  Kamonskill,  to  the  Brewery,  take  oui 
tea  there  about  nine  o'clock,  and  come  home  by  moonlight. 
You  know  the  Brewery  is  such  a  queer  old  place,  and  the 
teas  there  used  to  be  quite  famous.  Nobody  has  been  there 
this  year — it's  quite  a  novelty,  ever  so  much  better  than  a 
supper  at  Fauchdre's,  where  everybody  goes  at  least  every 
week.  We'll  take  some  champagne  with  us,  and  Oliver 
shall  carry  his  guitar  and  sing,  and  altogether  it  will  be  suc- 
cessful. It  is  no  end  of  a  lark.  Dorla,  how  can  you  be  so 
obstinate?" 

(<  T  am  not  obstinate  about  anything  but  the  note,  ask  the 
other  people — " 

"  I  won't  stir  without  three  men.  I  will  not  go  unless 
there  are  enough  to  make  it  look  convivial.  A  miserable 
Bcraped-together  party,  with  two  or  three  sticks  of  married 
men,  and  a  brind  or  two  snatched  from  tre  rival  fire.  No, 
unless  we  have  something  fresh  and  noticeable,  wp  are  better 


28  A  PERFECT  ADONI3. 

off  at  home,  creeping  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  without  lighting  ths 
parlor  lamp.  I  should  think  you'd  have  a  little  pride,  my 
dear.  After  the  fuss  people  have  made  about  you,  it  isn't 
pleasant  to  see  you  snuffed  out  in  this  manner." 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  pleasant,"  said  Dorla,  between  a  pout 
and  a  laugh.  "  It  only  shows  it  was  a  fictitious  market : 
the  inflation  wis  owing  to  you  altogether." 

"  Not  altogether,"  cried  Harriet,  "  but  to  be  frank,  it  was 
not  all  your  eyes  and  hair.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  help  me 
out  of  this.  If  you  will,  I'll  never  be  deceived  by  any  one 
again  !  The  more  babies  a  woman  has,  the  more  I  will  dis 
trust  her.  Nothing  but  grandchildren  will  put  me  off  my 
guard." 

"  The  Seymour  would  flirt  if  she  had  the  second  gen> 
eration  on  her  knees." 

"  Nobody  would  flirt  with  her.  She  would  not  harm 
us  then.  But  now,  to  block  her  game.  Dorla,  here's  your 
paper;  write  the  little  note.  John  won't  have  more  than 
time  to  take  it,  and  do  all  my  errands." 

"  Harriet,  there  isn't  the  smallest  use  in  asking  me." 

"  Now  tell  me  in  plain  English,  why  you  are  so  obstinate. 
What  harm  is  there  in  asking  a  man  to  join  a  party,  in 
which  there  are  at  least  two  matrons,  and  in  which  every- 
body is  older  than  yourself  ?  Come,  why  can't  you  do  it  ? 
Your  first  reason  ?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  know  him,  and  because  I  don't  like  to." 

''Wall,  the  next?" 

l<  Because  he  isn't  exactly  in  our  sort  of  life  and  mightn  ' 
fenow  how  to  take  it,  and  because —  O,  Harriet,  well,  if  you 
must  make  me  say  it,  I  am  afraid,  that  is,  I  think  he  thinks 
he  likes  me,  and  might  be  unhappy  about  it,  when  he  found 
^»it  we  were  only  making  use  of  him.  He  isn't  the  sort  of  man 
fco  laugh  at,  Harriet,  he  isn't  used  to  our  ways  of  doing 
things.  You  had  better  let  him  drop,  and  think  of  some- 
body else  to  butcher  for  your  Roman  holiday." 

Miss  Varian  left  the  room  at  this  in  a  great  pet.     She 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  29 

renounced  JDorla  and  her  interests  for  the  space  of  half  an 
hour;  she  even  pulled  a  trunk  out  and  sent  for  Rosa  to 
come  and  do  her  packing.  But  before  Rosa  could  arrive 
she  had  come  to  a  wiser  resolution.  She  did  not  knoi» 
where  to  go  if  she  went  from  Milford,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing better  than  to  reconquer  Milford,  and  begin  the  cam- 
paign da  capo.  As  to  Dorla's  scruples,  there  was  more  than 
one  way  of  getting  around  an  obstacle.  She  would  write 
the  note  herself  in  Dorla's  name.  She  had  a  right  to  do  it, 
she  had  done  so  much  for  her ;  and  then,  when  it  came  out, 
she  would  laugh  and  tell  her  all  about  it.  Really  there  was 
nothing  in  it.  It  was  making  a  mountain  out  of  nothing. 
She  despised  herself  for  giving  herself  so  much  trouble. 
This  was  the  solution  she  should  have  arrived  at,  at  the 
first.  So  she  pulled  out  of  the  portfolio,  which  in  her  temper 
and  haste  she  had  kept  in  her  hand  when  she  left  the  other 
room,  a  sheet  of  pearl  colored  note  paper,  with  Dorla's 
initials  in  lilac  on  it,  and  she  wrote  :  "  Miss  St.  John  will 
be  very  glad  if  Mr.  Rothermel  will  join  Mrs.  Varian's  party 
to  the  Brewery  to-night.  At  seven  o'clock  the  ladies  will  be 
ready,  if  Mr.  Rothermel  will  meet  them  in  the  parlor  of  the 
cottage." 

Then  Harriet's  spirits  rose.  This  was  quite  to  her  taste. 
It  was  conquering  adverse  fortune.  She  scrawled  off  two 
other  little  notes,  sent  Rosa  to  lay  in  wait  for  Mr.  Cullen, 
and  marched  forth  to  reduce  Oliver  in  person.  That  was 
very  easily  accomplished.  He  was  quite  soft-hearted  about 
Oorla,  and  she  forged  a  sweet  little  message  from  her,  and  he 
was  soon  flying  about,  sending  orders  to  the  Brewery  and  put- 
ting things  en  train.  Jack  Cullen  was  not  so  easy  to  subdue. 
He  was  quite  captivated  by  Mrs.  Seymour,  and  was  moreover 
deeply  implicated  in  the  supper  party,  was  the  head  and 
front  sf  it,  in  fact,  under  her  direction.  How  to  make  him 
break  through  all  this  was  Harriet's  difficulty ;  for  she  fore- 
saw cheerfully  it  would  be  a  permanent  break.  Amiable  as  the 
lady  was,  sbe  would  never  overlook  a  slight  like  that.  Jack 


30  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

would  never  again  smoke  his  after-dinner  meerschaum  ii 
the  shade  of  that  catalpa,  if  Harriet  carried  her  point  to-diy. 
And  she  did  carry  it.  Jack  was  a  society  man.  He  dared 
not  put  the  Yarians  against  him,  He  owed  them  a  good 
deal,  and  (what  was  more  to  the  point)  he  expected  to  owe 
them  a  great  deal  more.  He  basely  forswore  the  supper 
party,  and  with  a  gloomy  front  marshalled  himself  again  in 
the  Varian  following. 

At  half-past  six,  when  Dorla  came  down  into  the  parlor 
a  little  late,  she  found  everybody  there.  And  more  than 
everybody.  When  she  saw  young  Rothermel,  she  gave  a 
little  start  and  colored.  He  was  not  too  much  embarrassed 
to  notice  her  blush.  Harriet,  looking  a  little  flushed  and 
excited  too,  managed  to  whisper  to  Dorla  with  a  laugh,  as 
she  passed  her,  <£  you  see  I  managed  to  get  him  without  you 
after  all." 

Dorla  was  in  a  fever  of  curiosity  to  know  "  how,"  but 
there  was  no  time  and  no  opportunity  for  an  explanation. 
The  room  was  quite  full  of  people,  for,  all  massed,  the  party 
was  respectable  in  numbers ;  Mrs.  Varian  and  the  two 
young  ladies,  the  three  gentlemen  so  hardly  won,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bishop,  and  the  three  •  Davises,  father,  daughter 
and  a  son.  The  carriages  were  at  the  door.  Into  the 
Varian  carriage,  Harriet  put  Mrs.  Varian,  Mrs.  Bishop, 
Mr.  Davis  and  Oliver.  Into  the  large  open  wagon,  went  the 
others.  Dorla  and  the  pretty  Davis  girl  were  on  fhe  back- 
seat ;  on  the  high  seat  of  the  driver  Jack  Cullen  was  put,  as 
being  a  conspicuous  place,  and  one  not  involving  him  in 
conversation.  (His  present  condition  of  mind  was  not 
favorable  to  conversation.)  The  precious  object  of  Harriet's 
eob  mining  and  forgery  was  also  made  prominent,  as  was  the 
hamper  of  champagne. 

Then,  amid  much  laughing  and  merriment,  some  of  it 
i  ttther  . forced,  they  started  from  the  house,  the  large  wagon 
leading.  Harriet  insisted  upon  making  the  tour  of  the  vil- 
vage.  It  was  a  lovely  evening  ;  the  people  were  just  coming 


J,  PERFECT  ADONIS.  SI 

from  tea,  starting  for  their  walk  to  t'he  Bluff,  or  sitting 
about  the  piazzas.  It  is  safe  to  say  everybody  in  Milford 
saw  them.  And  very  nice  and  jolly  they  looked.  A  good 
many  people  doubtless  envied  them.  They  eclipsed  the 
uipper-party,  now  raging  with  the  defection  of  its  two  best 
nen ;  they  delighted  the  popular  eye.  Admiration  and  envy 
followed  them  neck-and-neck  as  they  swept  out  of  the  vil- 
lage, down  the  hill,  towards  the  lovely  river  road.  How  very 
few  but  thought  them  happy  and  gay,  and  that  all  these 
pleasures  had  been  tumbled  in  their  lap  by  a  generous  and 
partial  destiny.  Not  guessing  at  the  rancor  and  envy  and 
deceit  that  had  underlaid  the  matter,  and  the  little  crime  of 
forgery  which  was  the  corner  stone  of  the  construction. 
Several  of  the  party  felt  very  uncomfortable  ;  all  were 
rather  silent,  after  they  were  fairly  out  of  the  village. 
Jack  was  in  obstinate  ill-humor,  making  very  little  effort 
to  conceal  his  feelings.  Oliver  was  dull  and  a  little  senti- 
mental. Young  Rotherrnel  was  constrained  and  awkward. 
Poor  Dorla  felt  personally  responsible  for  his  behavior,  and 
was  miserable  every  time  he  opened  his  mouth,  lest  he 
should  say  something  that  the  sharp-witted  citizens  by  whom 
he  was  surrounded  could  turn  into  ridicule.  She  was 
much  perplexed  to  know  how  he  got  there ;  nor  could  she 
understand  a  certain  shade  of  difference  in  his  manner,  a 
slight  decrease  in  diffidence,  and  a  slight  increase  in  ardor. 
When  she  was  left  beside  him  for  one  moment  as  they  were 
getting  out  of  the  carriages  at  the  Brewery,  she  was  in  great 
alarm  lest  he  should  tell  her  that  he  loved  her  on  the  spot. 
"  Maybe  they  do  so  in  the  country,"  she  thought,  in  terror, 
hurrying  to  get  beside  some  one.  His  eyes  said  so  much,  so 
unaccountably  much,  for  such  a  very  limited  acquaintance. 
Poor  fellow,  he  was  alarmingly,  recklessly  in  love,  and  before 
the  expedition  was  over,  everybody  knew  it  quite  as  well  as 
Dorla  did.  The  sudden  elevation  of  hope  that  he  owed  to 
Harriet's  fraud  had  brought  his  latent  passion  into  full 
maturity.  He  was  very  young  and  very  ignorant,  as  Dorla 


32  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

had  told  Harriet,  "  of  their  ways  of  doing  things."  He 
as  Harriet  had  predicted,  in  a  seventh  heaven;  and  the 
added  influence  of  the  moonlight,  the  champagne,  the 
music,  and  the  gay  party,  (for  before  the  end  of  the  even- 
ing, the  party  was  gay),  made  him  quite  reckless  who  knew 
the  state  of  his  affections. 

Sitting  out  on  the  piazza  of  the  Brewery,  after  tea,  Olivet 
sang  some  love  songs,  in  a  slender  metallic  voice.  Huoh 
music  was  better  than  nothing,  but  not  very  good.  The 
moonlight  was  lovely,  and  the  air  was  balmy.  The  tea,  or 
supper,  also  had  been  very  good.  The  ladies  sat  on  the 
piazza,  the  gentlemen  leaned  about  the  railing  or  sat  on  the 
steps.  Jack,  still  morose,  smoked  his  cigar  a  few  rods  down 
the  path.  After  Oliver  had  sung  all  his  little  ditties,  some 
one  said,  who  else  would  sing  ?  Harriet  said,  "  Would  not 
Mr.  Rothermel  ?  "  He  consented  and  took  the  guitar  in  his 
hand.  Dorla  was  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  and  made 
Harriet  an  imploring  gesture,  which  Harriet  scorned  to 
notice,  otherwise  than  by  urging  the  singing  upon  him  further. 
Dorla  bent  down  her  head  as  he  began,  and  wished  that  she 
were  deaf.  She  had  seen  the  bright-eyed  Davis  girl  waa 
preparing  to  enjoy  a  little  comedy.  Even  Jack  drew  near 
with  a  shade  of  interest,  and  Dorla  saw  Mrs.  Bishop  touch 
her  husband's  arm.  This  all  seemed  absolutely  cruel ;  she 
was  in  a  fever  of  mortification.  This  man,  through  her, 
was  being  made  a  fool  of;  a  good  honest  fellow  too,  a  better 
man  perhaps  than  some  of  those  who  judged  him.  He  waa 
tolerably  well  educated  (she  had  found  that  out  already), 
having  spent  his  four  respectable  years  in  a  college-town, 
and  having  studied  law  after  it  with  as  much  result  as  usual, 
What  he  lacked  was  what  both  colleges  and  law  schools  do  not 
supply,  to  wit,  good  breeding.  He  used  correct  English 
when  he  spoke ;  she  had  never  seen  him  do  a  flagrantly 
gauche  thing.  He  seemed  to  have  a  general  and  consistent 
idea  of  good  manners ;  yet  she  was  always  uncertain  of  him, 
and  was  always  tingling  with  a  sense  of  discord.  But  to 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS,  33 

night  she  had  an  agreeable  surprise ;  in  a  few  moments  after 
he  began  to  sing,  she  ceased  to  wish  that  she  were  deaf,  and 
presently  raised  her  head,  and  gazed  at  him  with  reassur 
ance.  For  he  had  a  voice  of  great  strength,  and  though 
uncultivated,  quite  remarkable  for  sweetness  and  expres- 
Eion.  Every  one  was  listening  with  pleasure.  Evidently  the 
study  of  elementary  music  had  entered  into  the  programme 
of  the  respectable  four  years,  and  the  guitar  had  been  re- 
garded as  part  of  a  "  liberal  education."  His  songs  were 
old-fashioned  and  only  of  one  order,  but  they  were  just  such 
as  suited  the  hour  and  the  sarroundings.  They  were  beati- 
fic, after  Oliver's  tinkling  tenor.  "When  the  swallows 
homeward  fly,"  "  Always  of  thee  I'm  fondly  dreaming,"  "  I'd 
offer  thee  this  hand  of  mine " — seemed  not  a  shade  too 
romantic  and  tender  for  the  hour  and  the  occasion.  There 
was  so  much  reality  and  abandon  in  his  singing,  that  every- 
one (but  Jack)  was  touched.  Sitting  on  the  steps  at  Dor  la's 
feet  in  that  soft  air  and  moonlight,  it  was  easy  to  put  ex- 
pression into  such  songs  as  these.  Dorla  felt  a  warmth  of 
pleasure  and  interest  j  it  is  very  pleasant  to  know  a  man  not 
to  be  ashamed  of  has  fallen  in  love  with  you. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  enthusiasm  expressed  for  his 
songs.  He  was  made  to  sing  everything  he  had  the  small- 
est knowledge  of;  to  sing  all  the  best  songs  over,  and  to  be 
recommended  to  learn  everybody's  favorite,  "  which  would 
just  suit  his  voice."  Harriet  was  secretly  happy  at  finding 
him  possessed  of  such  an  accomplishment,  which  rendered 
him  so  presentable,  and  she  made  out  a  plan  for  the  new  cam- 
paign, with  his  aid,  in  which  Mrs.  Seymour  was  to  be  routed 
Lorse,  foot  and  dragoon.  He  was  to  make  her  little  parties 
agreeable,  he  was  to  raise  the  falling  mercury  of  Dorla's  re- 
nown ;  he  was  to  be  their  slave.  And  much  more  useful 
and  unique  a  slave  than  Oliver,  or  that  "  Spanish  volunteer," 
poor  Jack.  Thinking  of  all  this,  Harriet  coul  1  not  be  too 
thankful  that  she  had  written  the  little  note. 

u  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  would  be  no  end  D£  a  lark,"  she 


g£  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

said  to  Dorla,  at  her  chamber  door  that  night,  declining 
however  to  enter,  and  keeping  Rosa  by  her  to  prevent  con- 
fidential questioning. 

"No  end  of  a  lark."  Yes,  verily  :  slang  fulfilled  a  pro- 
phetic sense  for  once.  It  had  no  end,  that  lark,  as  paor 
Dorla  found  at  last. 


|HE  lost  ground  was  soon  regained:  Oliver  and 
Rothermel  were  ready  weapons,  and  poor  Jack  was 
always  at  their  command,  faute  de  mieux,  to  com- 
mand him.  For  he  could  not  go  back,  after  that  sad 
day,  to  the  Seymour's  care,  and  all  the  coddling  he  got,  he 
got  from  the  sharp-voiced  Harriet.  The  Seymour's  temper 
suffered  by  these  reverses ;  she  became  less  soft,  less  winning 
to  the  smokers  of  meerschaums.  The  tide  of  favor  turned, 
wavered,  and  finally  set  strong  towards  the  Varians.  Their 
cottage  was  again  the  gathering  point  of  all  the  gentlemen, 
the  resort  of  the  cleverest  and  nicest  people.  People 
talked  about  Dorla,  as  they  did  at  first  j  admired  her,  criti- 
cised her,  found  fault  with  her,  but  made  her  very  important. 
They  tattled,  they  babbled,  they  grew  childish,  as  only  idle 
people  can.  What  point  of  smallness  would  they  not  have 
reached,  if  the  summer  had  been  more  than  three  months 
long. 

The  summer  was  now  at  its  close,  and  pleasant  as  it  had  been, 
everybody  was  a  little  tired  of  it  and  glad  to  go  away.  Peo- 
ple were  tired  of  each  other  ;  intimacies  were  worn  thin,  and 
ne<  ded  to  be  used  with  care.  Harriet,  for  her  part,  felt  that 
*he  required  relaxation.  She  had  worked  hard  that  summei 
Oliver  thought  change  of  scene  might  benefit  his  suit.  Jack 
had  done  nothing  but  swear  at  Milford  since  his  rupture  with 
Airs.  Seymcur ;  and  as  for  Dorla,  she  longed  eagerly  to  get 
awajr.  She  knew  that  going  a  way  was  the  end  of  gayety  and 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  35 

holiday  for  her ;  but  she  had  become  involved  in  a  sort  of 
"life  that  filled  her  with  dissatisfaction,  and  the  only  way  out 
of  it,  was  to  get  out  of  Milford.  It  seemed  to  be  entirely 
without  her  consent  that  she  was  put  in  the  position  she 
occupied,  She  rebelled  against  all  the  worldly  code  of  her 
set,  and  yet  she  went  on  obedient  to  it.  But  it  must  be  re- 
membered, she  was  very  young,  very  humble,  and  a  little 
timid.  She  could  hardly  stand  up  against  so  many  people 
older  than  herself,  and  cleverer  by  reason  of  experience. 
But  what  troubled  her  most,  was  not  the  belittling  of  her 
mind  and  the  blinding  of  her  conscience,  that  threatened 
from  such  a  sort  of  life,  but  the  more  positive  and  tangible 
perplexity  of  what  to  do  about  young  Rothermel.  Harriet 
had  used  him,  had  nattered  him,  had  kept  him  about  them, 
till  the  affair  had  grown  into  serious  proportions.  Dorla 
protested  and  avoided  him,  fled  him,  looked  wretched  when- 
ever they  were  together ;  but  that  did  not  help  the  matter. 
Ever  since  that  evil  Brewery  party,  he  had  seemed  to  feel 
he  had  a  right  to  be  in  love  with  her.  He  and  Oliver  were 
ragingly  jealous  of  each  other  ;  that  made  a  charming  little 
play,  at  which  Harriet,  the  Bishops,  and  the  Davises,  never 
seemed  to  tire  of  assisting.  Dorla  never  ceased  to  be  un- 
comfortable, and  the  admiration  she  received  from  others 
was  quite  lost  upon  her,  for  this  annoyance.  She  did  not 
mind  Oliver ;  he  seemed  conventional  and  commonplace ; 
she  very  much  doubted  whether  he  meant  anything  at  all. 
But  this  young  countryman ;  this  was  cruel,  and  she  hated 
herself  for  being  the  instrument  of  his  torture,  though  how  it 
bad  come  about,  she  was  not  sure  at  all.  There  was  a  mystery 
about  it  all.  Surely  she  had  not  encouraged  him  enough  to 
have  made  all  this  commotion.  For  everybody  was  talking 
vibout  it  (having  little  else  to  talk  about),  and  even  the  peo- 
ple of  +.he  village  were  busy  in  the  matter.  ]3orla  simply 
longed  to  get  away,  and  hailed  with  gratitude  the  day 
aamed  for  their  going,  when  it  caev*.  She  had  been  almost 
invisible  for  a  day  or  two,  and  so  *'  declarations  "  had  been  in 


36  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

order.  She  was  very  womanly,  if  not  very  adroit,  and 
neither  of  her  lovers  had  half  a  minute's  interview  with  her, 
from  the  time  their  going  was  decided  on.  She  was  Mrs. 
Varian's  shadow,  and  never  left  her  side  when  out  of  the 
cottage.  When  in  it,  she  generally  had  a  headache,  and 
could  not  leave  her  room. 

The  morning  of  the  departure  proved  bright  and  cool ;  a 
radiant  September  day.  A  large  party  was  going.  All  Mil- 
ford  stood  idle  and  gazing  about  the  piazza  steps  to  say  or 
look  good-bye — all  Milford,  that  is,  that  was  not  going  away 
in  the  stage.  It  was  voted  more  of  a  lark  to  go  on  the  top  of 
the  stage,  than  to  go  in  the  carriage.  So  Harriet  and  Dorla 
scrambled  up  to  the  topmost  seat,  with  Jack  and  young 
Davis  established  at  their  feet.  They  were  bright  with  gay 
•cloaks  and  blue  veils,  and  Harriet  had  a  violent  red  plume  in 
her  hat,  (which  became  the  stage  top  more  than  it  did  her). 
Jack  had  his  gun  and  fishing  rods.  There  was  Russia 
leather  run  mad,  in  every  device  of  valise,  bag,  lunch-box» 
shawl  strap.  Altogether,  they  were  a  bright  and  pretty 
sight,  and  it  looked  like  the  very  romance  of  a  journey. 
Dorla,  with  a  white  "  breast "  in  her  hat,  and  a  dark  blue 
cloak  wrapped  around  her,  looked  a  little  pale,  but  always 
pretty.  Oliver  she  was  watching  furtively,  keenly  appre- 
hending an  interview  at  the  depot.  She  knew  his  farewell  on 
the  steps  had  not  been  final.  For  the  other,  she  was  in  per- 
plexity. He  had  not  been  near  them  since  the  day  before. 
Surely  he  did  not  mean  a  depot  declaration  also.  She  re- 
solved to  take  young  Davis'  arm  when  they  got  down  from 
the  stage,  and  never  to  let  it  go  till  they  were  past  the  first 
station  on  the  road  to  town,  no  matter  what  became  of  the 
baggage. 

All  this  while,  during  the  formation  of  this  resolution  and 
during  this  furtive  watching,  she  was  bending  down  like  a 
gracious  young  princess,  and  saying  good-bye  to  the  people 
whc  stood  below  and  who  had  come  to  see  them  off.  At 
last  J  l(  Crack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels,  were 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  37 

never  folk  so  glad."  Amid  waved  handkerchiefs,  and 
scattered  kisses,  and  renewed  good-byes,  the  stage  rolled  on* 
of  the  village. 

During  the  drive  to  the  depot,  Dorla  once  grew  a  little 
quiet,  and  stopped  talking  half  a  moment,  just  half  a  moment, 
to  young  Davis.  Her  quick  eye  had  caught  sight  of  a  figure, 
a  man  in  sportsman's  clothes,  with  a  gun  at  his  side,  leaning 
against  a  tree,  on  a  hill  at  their  right,  about  quarter  of  a 
mile  off  from  the  highway.  No  one  else  saw  him  ;  it  woul  J 
have  been  difficult  to  say  how  she  saw  him,  or  how  she 
recognized  him  a*  that  distance  but  she  knew  instantly ;  it 
was  Rothermel,  "  Poor  little  Rothermel."  Though  why  she 
called  him  little  was  as  mysterious ;  for  he  was  honest  five 
feet  ten.  The  sudden  sight  gave  her  pain.  This  was  so 
cruel,  and  so  real,  and  so  wrong.  She  wished  she  could  for- 
get all  abont  it ;  no  doubt  she  would  when  she  got  away 
from  Milford.  No  doubt  this  was  the  last  time  she  should 
ever  see  or  hear  of  him. — Ah  ! —  And  with  that  certainty, 
she  said  softly  to  herself,  "  Good-bye,  poor  fellow.  Forget 
all  about  this  foolish  summer ;  and  I'll  pray  for  you  always 
for  my  penance.  You'll  be  happy  soon  with  somebody  that 
you'll  think  a  hundred  times  better  than  you  think  me 
now." 

Oliver  did  not  declare  himself  at  the  depot,  for  the  same 
reason  that  he  had  not  declared  himself  before.  He  did  not 
get  a  chance.  Dorla  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  as  the  cars 
started,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  could  at  last  rest  upon  her 
arms.  The  journey  was  not  very  different  from  other  jour- 
aeys  of  its  length,  notwithstanding  the  advantages  it  seemed 
to  present  in  the  matter  of  Russia  leather  and  lunch.  The 
cars  were  delayed  a  little,  the  afternoon  of  the  brilliant  Sep- 
tember morning  had  become  hot,  and  there  was  a  good  deal 
J>f  dust.  Harriet  had  a  headache,  and  Mrs.  Varian  was  very 
matter  of  fact. 

When  the  city  was  reached,  and  they  dropped  Dorla  at  her 
door,  it,  was  without  much  demonstration  of  seutiirent  at 


38  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

parting ;  Mrs.  Varian  seemed  chiefly  anxious  to  get  home  at 
the  hour  she  had  written  for  dinner,  and  Harriet  was  most 
concerned  about  a  missing  check  which  Jack  had  been  left  at 
the  ferry  to  fight  about.  It  seemed  to  Dorla  as  she  went 
up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell,  alone  (the  carriage  in  the 
interests  of  dinner  having  driven  on11 ,  a  very  tame  and  un- 
exciting ending  to  her  so  exciting  summer.  As  the  servant 
opened  the  door,  she  smelled  the  smell  of  the  old  familiar 
soup  which  the  cook  would  make  four  days  in  seven ;  one 
carrot,  one  turnip,  an  onion,  two  tops  of  celery,  two  pounds 
fresh  lean  beef ;  how  she  hated  it.  The  house  was  darkish, 
nobody  being  expected.  Harry  she  knew  was  "  out  of  town." 
O,  how  dingy,  and  worn,  and  dull  the  parlors  looked,  as  the 
woman  lit  the  gas  (with  a  horrid  match  that  filled  the  air 
with  sulphur).  Whole  weeks,  and  monohs,  and  years  of  se- 
clusion, and  worry,  and  monotony,  defiled  before  her  as  she 
looked  down  those  dim  rooms.  She  wondered  she  had 
wanted  to  come  away  from  Milford.  Milford  was  paradise  ; 
and  she  had  left  paradise  behind  forever. 

There  were  some  bills  lying  on  the  dining-room  mantel- 
piece ;  Harry  always  left  the  bills  for  her.  There  were  no 
letters,  no  cards,  nothing  that  looked  young-lady-like  and 
pleasant. 

(f  I  don't  want  any  dinner,"  she  said  to  the  servant.  "  Just 
bring  me  some  tea  up  to  my  room."  Dorla  spent  the  even- 
ing on  the  lounge  in  her  own  room  alone  (that  was  where 
she  would  spend  a  good  many).  O,  Milford  was  very  pleas- 
ant !  And  her  holiday  was  over.  There  wouldn't  be  any 
sequel  to  it  she  foresaw,  in  the  winter  pleasures  which  Har- 
riet could  give,  for  Harriet  was  going  on  to  Newport  the 
next  day.  She  would  be  there  all  the  autumn,  and  be  in 
Washington  much  of  the  winter.  Moreover,  Dorla  felt, 
ber  days  of  intimacy  with  the  Varians  were  over.  Some- 
how they  were  all  beginning  to  feel  their  dissimilarity,  and 
Harriet  had  never  been  intimate  with  any  one  beyond  one 
season.  Dorla  was  kneeling  before  her  open  trunk  (which 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  39 

fehe  expressman  had  banged  down  in  the  lower  hall,  and  th« 
women  had  dragged  toilsomely  up  stairs),  and  was  taking 
out,  carefully  and  tenderly,  the  dresses  and  little  toilet  adorn- 
ments of  the  now  departed  summer.  They  each  had  a  little 
separate  pathos  to  her.  This  was  the  sash  that  had  goi 
caught  in  the  bushes  at  the  Glen,  and  about  which  Oliver 

O  * 

wrote  the  very  even  rhymes  which  she  had  put  away  care- 
fully in  her  writing  desk,  lower  down  in  the  trunk.  These 
were  the  gloves,  and  she  sighed  a  little  as  she  pulled  out  the 
fingers,  that  she  had  worn  at  the  masque  ball.  Young  Davis 
had  carried  them  in  his  pocket  for  a  day  or  two,  and  had 
shown  some  inclination  not  to  give  them  up.  What  a  nice 
evening  that  had  been.  And  here  was  the  skirt,  the  poor, 
dear  old  skirt,  that  she  had  worn  to  the  Peak  that  glorious 
morning  when  the  wind  blew  so,  and  the  sky  was  so  intensely 
blue.  She  could  feel  the  strong  breeze  in  her  face,  and  the 
glow  that  went  through  her  as  she  climbed  the  uneven  path  ; 
here  was  the  rent  that  she  had  made  as  she  sprang  over  the 
great  tree  that  lay  across  their  way.  Oliver  had  said  a  great 
many  foolish  things  about  it,  and  had  given  her  pins  to  fas- 
ten it  up,  out  of  a  little  cushion  he  carried  in  his  pocket 
that  somebody  had  made  for  him  "  that  liked  him."  O,  who 
could.  Dorla  tried  to  fancy  the  kind  of  girl  that  would 
like  Mr.  Oliver  and  make  pin-cushions  for  him.  And  here, 
crushed  between  two  dresses  was  her  pretty  straw  hat,  with 
its  faded  ribbons;  but  it  was  bright  with  many  pleasant 
memories,  and  she  lifted  it  tenderly.  Wreathed  in  it,  were 
some  ferns  and  leaves  that  Rothermel  had  picked  for  her  one 
day  at  the  Kamonskill.  They  were  brittle  and  brown,  and 
broke  when  she  touched  them  ;  but  they  brought  back  the 
smell  of  the  moss  and  the  feeling  of  the  light  spray  on  hei 
face,  as  they  had  stood  under  the  wall  of  rock,  and  looke  J  up 
at  the  fall  above.  O,  the  blessed,  lovely  woods  and  waters— 
the  broad,  free  hfll-tops  and  the  summer  wind  !  How  she 
longed  for  them,  as  she  felt  herself  pent  once  again  in  city 
bounds ;  as  she  smelled  the  close  and  stagnant  air,  and  hear/1 


40  4  PERFECT  ADONI& 

the  roar  of  city  noises  that  came  in  through  the  wide  opened 
window.  She  was  kneeling  before  the  trunk  with  the  hat 
and  its  ferns  in  her  hand,  far  away  in  a  revery,  when  the 
door  was  pushed  open,  and  the  cook  appeared ;  a  gaunt, 
dark  woman,  whose  unlovely  temper  showed  itself  upon  her 
face.  She  had  lived  some  years  in  the  house,  and  was  honest 
and  sober  and  all  that  is  detestable. 

"  So  you're  back,  Miss  Dorla,"  she  said.  Dorla  said  yes, 
and  sighed  a  little  to  think  that  was  the  only  welcoming 
word  that  had  been  spoken.  She  was  prevented  from  trying 
to  be  amiable  in  her  interest  about  the  cook's  health,  by  the 
woman's  saying  without  preface,  "  And  what's  for  breakfast 
That's  what  I  came  about." 

«'  O,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

A  shrug  and  silence. 

"  Anything ;  you  know  what  is  in  the  house.  I  don't 
care  at  all." 

"  That's  the  kind  that's  always  hardest  to  be  pleased." 

"  But  you  know  I'm  not  that  kind,  I'm  very  easy  to  be 
pleased." 

"  All  the  same,  I'd  like  you  to  say  what  I'm  to  make 
you  for  your  breakfast." 

"O,  well,  I  don't  know;  I  think  I  should  like  some 
oysters,  perhaps." 

"  It's  nearly  ten  o'clock,  and  the  shops  are  likely  shut." 

"  O,  then  don't  think  of  it.     A  chop—" 

"  We  haven't  an  ounce  of  fresh  meat  in  the  house." 

"  "Well,  some  cold  beef — anything  cold  you  have." 

"  The  last  of  the  mutton  was  used  up  for  dinner  yes- 
terday. We  do  mostly  without  meat  when  we're  all 
nlone." 

"Why,  then  you  can  make  me  an  omelette.  Your 
wnelettes  are  always  nice." 

"  There  isn't  an  egg  down  stairs.  I  haven't  sent  to  thf 
grocer's  for  a  week." 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  *\ 

"  Then  Amanda,  it's  very  evident,  I  shan't  have  much 
for  breakfast." 

"  That's  just  what  I  was  saying,  you'd  be  certain  to  com- 
plain." 

"  Well,  I  can't  complain  now,  because  I  know  what  to 
expect.  If  you  give  me  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll  I  shall 
not  be  dissatisfied." 

u  The  coffee  has  been  out  this  week  or  more ;  and  SaraL 
drinks  tea  and  I  just  take  what's  made.  I  don't  have 
things  put  out  much  for  me" 

"  Why  didn't  you  order  coffee.  You  know  you  have 
liberty  to  order  what  is  necessary." 

"  Liberty.  O  yes ;  I  know  all  about  my  liberty.  Per- 
haps if  you  had  some  cooks  you  mightn't  say  that  to  them. 
But  you're  quite  safe  in  saying  it  to  me.  I'd  like  you  to 
look  over  the  books,  and  see  if  they  are  all  correct." 

"  I  am  perfectly  sure  the  books  are  all  right,  before  I 
look  at  them.  If  I  didn't  trust  you,  I  shouldn't  leave  you 
here." 

"You  needn't  be  too  certain.  There's  the  ice-man 
Bays—" 

"  O,  Amanda,  wait  till  to-morrow.  I'll  look  everything 
over  in  the  morning.  I  am  really  tired  to-night." 

Amanda  made  a  sound  that  conveyed  ineffable  con- 
tempt, and  turned  back  to  the  breakfast.  There  wasn't  any 
roll,  and  the  French  baker  had  stopped  coming  since  Mr. 
Harry  had  been  gone. 

<f  Then  I  will  eat  a  cracker — I  brought  some  home  in  my 
bag — and  drink  a  glass  of  water,  if  you  haven't  any  coffee. 
But  I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word  about  it." 

And  then  the  sour  creature  had  to  go  away,  for  she 
never  dared  go  further  than  this  with  her  young  mistress 
(it  surely  was  far  enough  to  go).  She  was  an  American, 
And  like  all  capable  American  servants,  very  disagreeable, 
Bhe  resented  her  position  always,  at  all  moments  of  her 
life  and  she  saw  not  the  least  propriety  in  any  one  being 


42  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

better  off  than  she  was  herself.  She  rather  liked  the  dissi- 
pated, villainous  Harry,  buj  for  the  pretty  young  Dorla  she 
had  no  pity.  She  would  have  liked  to  put  her  at  the  wash- 
tub  and  have  seer  her  make  the  fires.  Notwithstanding, 
fhs  was  trusty  and  frugal,  taking  a  pride  in  starving 
aerself  in  summer,  and  making  the  other  woman  live  01 
scraps,  saving  and  saving,  quarrelling  over  every  bill, 
and  making  the  house  unbearable  to  every  servant  who 
cam  3  in  it.  The  kitchen  life  was  so  grim  and  dull  through 
her  peculiarities,  that  constant  changes  were  being  made ; 
no  one  stayed  six  months. 

Housekeeping  cares  are  naturally  irksome  to  girls  of 
Dorla's  age,  but  everything  was  so  unfavorable  to  her,  it  was 
no  wonder  she  felt  overwhelmed  with  this  sudden  resump- 
tion of  them.  She  threw  herself  down,  with  the  straw-hat 
still  in  her  hands,  and  cried  bitterly,  after  her  tormenter 
went  away.  Evidently  her  holiday  had  unfitted  her  fox 
duty,  if  duty  this  was.  (When  things  are  very  unpleasant, 
it  is  safe  to  think  them  duties.)  Dorla  was  not  of  the 
kind  to  get  up  and  get  out  of  a  position  in  which  she  found 
herself  because  it  was  a  disagreeable  one.  The  tendency  of 
her  disposition  was  always  to  sacrifice  herself.  Her  life  had 
been  very  sad,  and  she  always  distrusted  herself  when  she 
was  at  all  happy.  It  was  certain,  she  was  leading  a  very 
unwise  and  unnecessary  life,  but  there  was  no  one  to  help 
ner  out  of  it,  The  executors  of  her  mother's  will  decided 
ic  was  best  to  retain  the  house  and  keep  the  children 
together.  So  everything  remained  as  it  had  been  before. 
A.  sort  of  governess  had  been  placed  over  Dorla,  who 
remained  till  she  was  eighteen.  Then  Dorla  was  considered 
i>ld  enough  to  guide  the  house  herself.  There  was  sufficient 
money  to  do  all  but  make  her  happy  (there  had  been  more 
than  enough  to  ruin  Harry,  poor  sinful  boy).  It  was  a 
force  now  to  keep  the  house  for  him.  He  seldom  was  in  it, 
and  it  was  no  restraint  upon  him.  The  knowledge  of  hia 
sins  was  wasting  the  youth  of  his  sister,  and  she  was  doing 


A  PERFECT  U)ONI8.  43 

him  no  good.  What  she  needed  was  yoang  companions  hipj 
healthy  interests  and  pleasures.  But  there  was  no  one  to 
arraoge  it  for  her,  and  she  had  no  ability  to  do  it  for  her- 
uelf,  though  she  could  have  done  it  very  well  for  anybody 
3lse. 


|T  was  the  beginning  of  Lent ;  a  chilly,  grey,  cold  day. 
It  was  the  anniversary  of  her  mother's  death,  a  day 
Dorla  always  spent  most  strictly.  That  morning 
she  had  been  in  church ;  this  afternoon  she  was  alone,  beside 
her  mother's  picture,  trying  to  read,  with  the  weary  feeling 
hours  of  emotion  had  produced. 

Her  life  had  been  as  quiet  as  ever  this  winter.  Harriet 
she  had  hardly  seen ;  partly  because  the  latter  had  been  much 
iway,  and  partly  because  a  new  enthusiasm  had  taken  hold 
of  her.  There  was  a  young  woman  from  the  West,  who 
had  great  musical  talent,  and  she  was  Harriet's  duty  and 
pleasure  at  present.  Harriet  talked  music,  gave  concerts, 
went  to  oratorios,  had  a  box  at  the  opera.  There  was  no 
room  for  any  other  interests  now.  Dorla  went  to  one  or 
two  parties,  but  she  was  allowed  to  languish  in  a  corner 
while  all  the  world  was  crowded  round  the  piano.  She 
went  to  one  or  two  other  parties,  but  they  did  not  give  he? 
much  amusement.  She  knew  so  few  people,  and  was  too 
timid  to  get  along  alone.  The  pleasures  of  Milford  seemed 
ery  sweet  at  this  distance. 

One  or  two  experiences,  consequent  upon  those  pleasures, 
however,  had  been  not  so  sweet.  One  was  the  reception 
of  the  postponed  declaration  from  Mr.  Oliver.  The  other 
was  a  visit  from  young  Rothermel.  That  had  occurred 
about  a  month  after  her  return  from  Milford.  She  was 
rotting  in  her  room  one  day,  when  the  servant  brought 
up  ihe  card.  It  was  a  great  surprise,  and  she  was  in 
fright  and  perplexity.  She  had  begun  to  forget  about 


44  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

him,  and  felt  that  she  had  heard  the  last  of  him.  She 
could  not  see  him.  She  felt  that  if  she  did,  there  could  be 
but  cne  result.  So,  hurriedly,  she  sent  the  servant  back 
to  say,  she  begged  he  would  excuse  her.  It  was  all  done 
in  a  moment.  When  she  heard  the  door  shut,  she  was 
overwhelmed  with  regret,  and  saw  how  harsh  it  was.  It 
would  have  been  so  much  better  to  have  been  brave  and  to 
have  seen  him,  and  softened  the  blow,  if  it  could  not  be 
averted.  This  occurrence  filled  her  with  regret  and  self- 
reproach  for  many  days.  But  by  degrees  she  thought  less 
of  it,  and  this  February  day  she  was  sitting  alone  again, 
and  hardly  remembered  that  it  had  occurred.  It  is  very 
true  that  the  sorrows  of  others  when  they  are  not  in  our 
sight,  do  not  break  our  spirits.  Dorla  could  have  been 
happy  if  there  Jiad  been  anything  to  be  happy  about. 

There 'came  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  unbolted  it,  and 
the  servant  handed  her  a  letter. 

It  was  from  Harriet  Varian,  and  Dorla  sat  down  by  the 
window  to  read  it.  Another  letter  fell  out  from  it,  which 
had  a  Milford  post  mark.  She  looked  curiously  at  it  but 
read  Harriet's  first.  It  began  : 

"  DEAR  DORLA, — Mamma  received  this  strange  letter  this 
morning,  and  I  should  have  brought  it  round  to  you  myself, 
but  we  are  just  starting  for  Washington  this  evening.  I 
don't  know  what  you'll  think  about  it.  Of  course,  I'm  very 
much  distressed.  Mamma  is  quite  angry,  but  I  tell  her  it 
isn't  any  fault  of  yours.  You  never  dreamed  it  was  coming 
to  anything  like  this,  and  I  am  sure  you  did  not  give  him 
nuch  encouragement.  Or  if  you  did,  you  could  not  be  sup- 
posed to  know  he  was  going  to  take  it  so  to  heart.  Girls 
are  always  blamed  for  everything,  it  seems  to  me.  Our 
Milford  laundress  (do  you  remember  her?  that  French 
woman  who  used  to  do  our  things  so  beautifully)  was  here 
this  morning  to  get  a  recommendation  from  mamma, — and 
•he  says  all  the  people  are  talking  about  us,  and  saying  how 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  45 

shamefully  you  acted  towards  him.  I  shall  always  defend 
you,  my  dear,  no  matter  what  occurs,  for  you  only  did  What 
any  other  girl  would  do,  in  just  such  circumstances,  and 
it  isn't  fair  to  lay  it  on  your  shoulders.  Write  to  me  al 
Washington,  and  don't  let  this  trouble  you.  Sorry  that  I 
can't  see  you  to  talk  it  over.  We  shall  be  away  about  a 
month.  Good-bye.  In  greatest  haste,  yours  always, 

"H.  H.  V." 

When  Dorla  laid  this  letter  down,  it  seemed  to  her  her 
neart  did  not  beat,  her  blood  did  not  move.  She  could  not 
draw  her  breath,  and  it  was  a  long  moment  before  she  could 
take  up  the  letter  from  her  lap.  It  was  as  follows  : 

"  MRS.  VARIAN. 

"  Madam, — I  take  the  liberty  of  writing  to  you.  I  am 
in  great  trouble,  and  I  write  these  few  lines  to  tell  you  my 
son  is  dying.  He  was  the  best  son  a  mother  ever  had,  and 
it  is  hard  to  see  him  go,  for  he  is  my  all.  I  do  not  reproach 
anybody  for  it.  It  is  God's  will.  But  if  he  had  not  seen 
your  family  ever  he  would  not  be  now  where  he  is.  I 
meant  to  write  a  letter  to  that  young  lady,  but  I  do  not  dare 
to  trust  myself.  But  I  forgive  her.  Ever  since  he  came 
back  from  the  city  (where  he  went  so  hopeful  and  so  happy),  he 
has  not  been  like  himself,  and  now  for  six  weeks  he  has  been 
lying  on  his  bed,  with  fever,  and  such  sufferings.  But  he 
doesn't  suffer  any  now,  so  the  Doctors  say,  for  his  mind  is 
never  here,  and  he  only  talks  about  her  all  the  time.  I  hope 
God  will  forgive  her,  and  never  make  her  suffer  the  half  of 
what  she's  brought  into  this  house.  I  don't  want  to  say 
harsh  things  about  her.  But  Mrs.  Varian,  it  is  so  hard  to 
Bee  him  die,  and  to  know  it  needn't  have  been  so.  I  hope 
you  will  forgive  my  boldness  in  writing  to  you.  I  am  very 
unhappy,  for  my  boy  was  all  I  had,  and  I  am  afraid  it  is  more 
than  I  can  stand. 

"  Respectfully  yours, 

«  MRS.  A.  ROTHERMIL." 


&6  ^  PERFECT  AVON18. 

There  were  some  capitals  that  were  unnecessary  in  this 
letter,  and  the  signature  was  rather  unconventional;  all 
this  Dorla  saw;  the  cramped  handwriting  looked  so  exactly 
like  Amanda's  efforts.  She  sat  still,  like  one  frozen,  and 
tried  to  take  in  what  the  strange  letter  meant.  She  read  it 
over,  time  after  time,  from  the  date  to  the  signature.  The 
sense  of  it  seemed  to  creep  into  her  brain  slowly ;  she  did 
not  receive  it  at  once.  She  took  in  the  sense  of  it,  some- 
way like  this : 

"  Then  he  is  very  ill,  this  young  man  who  was  so  healthy 
and  strong-looking;  very  ill  indeed.  Dying.  May  be  he  is 
dead  already  ;  this  letter  is  dated — let  me  see,  dated — Mil- 
ford,  the  sixth  of  February.  Yes,  it  is  many  days  ago  He 
may  be  dead  already  ;  think  of  it,  anybody  so  strong  and 
well  only  a  few  short  months  ago.  I  cannot  somehow  take 
it  in.  I  never  thought  about  his  dying,  and  it  is  his  mother 
who  writes ;  that  gentle,  pale,  worn-out  looking  woman  that 
we  saw  once  when  we  stopped  at  the  gate  with  him.  He 
seemed  so  fond  of  her ;  and  she  hasn't  any  other  child.  The 
father  is  dead  too ;  she  is  all  alone.  Poor  woman,  it  is  a 
terrible  calamity.  She  says  he  was  so  good  :  I'm  sure  he 
was,  not  wild  and  bad  like  Harry.  O !  is  not  this  a  sad 
thing  !  That  he  should  have  to  go,  and  so  many  men  who 
only  ruin  themselves  and  give  sorrow  to  those  that  care  for 
them,  to  stay  ;  so  young  too,  with  the  chance  of  living  such 
a  good  life,  having  children,  and  making  the  old  house  bright 
and  pleasant.  She  will  have  to  live  always  by  herself,  dreary 
and  morbid,  with  all  the  windows  shut  up  close,  and  nobody 
to  look  after  the  cattle  and  the  farm.  She  will  die  SOOD 
herself,  it  is  not  likely  she  can  live  without  him,  when  she 
has  lived  for  him  only  for  so  many  years.  Oh,  what  a  train 
•>f  miserable  things.  I  wonder  how  it  has  all  come  to  pass — I 
•lon't  understand  how  anybody  can  dare  to  say — O  God ! 
If  it  should  be  true.  If  it  should  in  any  little  way  be  true. 
[f  I  aui  any,  any  way  to  blame.  O  Lord  !  have  mercy  upon  m« 
— don't  let  me  think  this  thing.  Don't  let  it  be  true.  Save 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  47 

me  from  this  or  I  want  to  die.  What  have  I  ever  done  to 
make  it  right  that  I  should  bear  a  thing  like  this.  Oh,  why 
— O !  it  isn't,  isn't  true.  I  didn't  lead  him  on  to  this.  I 
never  said  a  word  to  make  him  think  I  liked  him.  I  hate 
Harriet  Varian.  I  wish  that  I  had  never  seen  her. 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead.  I  never  have  any  pleas- 
ure but  it  brings  a  punishment.  I  do  not  think  I 
am  worse  than  other  girls,  and  yet  see  the  things 
that  happen  to  me.  O,  such  an  awful,  awful  thing  as  this. 
It  is  like  murder ;  it  is  not  any  better.  I  shall  have  the 
blood  of  that  man  always  against  my  soul.  Because  I  liked 
to  look  pretty,  and  be  admired,  this  has  all  come  about. 
Because  it  pleased  me  to  think  that  people  talked  about  me, 
I  shall  have  to  feel  that  they  are  talking  about  me  always 
now  in  another  cruel  way.  I  told  Harriet  not  to  ask  him 
to  go  with  us  that  night,  but  someway  she  did  ask  him,  and 
there  the  trouble  was.  It  never  would  have  come  to  this,  if 
he  had  not  gone  with  us  that  night  and  got  on  such  familiar 
terms.  It  is  so  awful  to  think  of  what  our  little  schemings 
bring  about.  And  how  well  I  remember,  one  day,  when  we 
were  all  sitting  at  the  Bluff,  I  looked  up  and  saw  his  eyes 
on  me,  as  if  he  could  not  look  away.  And  it  gave  me  a 
strange  sort  of  pleasure  (O,  how  wicked  I  must  have  been), 
to  think  that  he  was  in  love  with  me  and  never  saw  anybody 
else.  That  was  the  only  time  I  ever  thought  so ;  but  here  is 
this  come  upon  me.  All  this  for  that  one  thought.  O,  it  is 
ttot  just,  it  is  not  right.  I  will  not  believe  I  ought  to  bear 
this  load  for  that  one  little  sin.  O,  if  I  were  only  dead.  O^ 
if  I  were  the  only  one  to  suffer,  it  might  be  possible  to  carry  it, 
but  to  think  of  that  poor  woman,  and  that  man  whose  soul 
was  gone  perhaps  even  before  I  read  this  letter.  0,  if  he 
were  not  ready !  If  his  soul  is  lost  for  want  of  some  prayer, 
Home  preparation.  This  is  more,  this  is  worse  than  I  can 
luffer — Oh,  how  wicked  I  am  growing — how  my  heart  rebels 
— If  I  had  somebody  to  help  me,  somebody  to  say  a  word, 
lomebody  to  tell  me  what  to  do.  O,  mother!  mother!  pray 


&8  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

for  me;  pray  for  ycur  poorDorla;  ask  God  to  take  thia 
Load  away  from  me,  and  forgive  me  all  I've  done."  And 
with  a  cry,  she  cast  herself  upon  her  knees,  and  burst  into 
violent  sobs 

It  was  an  ordeal  for  so  young,  so  conscientious  a  person, 
and  one  so  very  isolated  in  position.  There  was  no  one  to 
take  a  disinterested  view  of  it  all,  and  tell  her  what  she 
ought  to  do.  With  her  brain  stunned  by  this  calamity, 
which  had  fired  her  conscience  with  such  flaming  accusa- 
tions and  left  her  judgment  paralyzed,  she  was  to  decide 
upon  what  to  do ;  and  what  she  did,  then,  was  to  be  the 
most  important  doing  of  her  life.  When  she  rose  from  her 
knees,  ashy  white,  and  shaking  all  over,  she  had  resolved 
what  to  do.  She  went  to  the  clock  to  see  the  hour ;  her 
eyes  were  so  blinded  and  scorched  with  crying,  she  could  not 
see  across  the  room.  It  was  almost  five  o'clock.  She  went 
to  the  table  and  hunted  among  the  things  there  for  & 
morning  paper,  and  searched  it  hurriedly.  But  no  list  of 
the  Erie  trains  was  given  in  it,  and  she  laid  it  down  and 
turned  over  the  papers  in  her  desk  for  a  time  table.  She 
was  trembling  so,  it  seemed  to  her,  somebody  ought  to  take 
care  of  her  and  do  things  for  her.  She  wished  she  might 
call  Amanda,  somebody  to  find  out  for  her  what  she  wanted 
to  know,  but  that  was  impossible.  So  putting  on  her  bonnet 
and  cloak,  in  some  way,  she  made  herself  ready  and  went 
out,  alone,  into  the  street. 

The  gas  was  lit  in  the  street  lamps,  the  outer  doors  were 
shut  and  shades  were  down.  She  had  rarely  been  so  late 
outside  the  house  without  attendance;  this  added  to  her 
feeling  of  bewilderment.  There  was  a  depot,  at  which  she 
felt  sure  she  cd*ld  find  time  tables  of  all  the  roads,  not 
more  than  half  a  mile  away.  To  that  she  went ;  through 
hackmen  and  newsboys,  and  policemen  and  expressmen, 
and  cars  and  carriages  and  baggage  wagons,  she  found  her 
way  into  the  office  and  at  some  desk.  There,  some  one  took 
pity  on  her  and  told  her  what  she  wanted  to  know,  and 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  49 

iven  wrote  it  down  on  a  piece  of  paper.  It  is  posssble  that 
she  looked  so  agitated,  the  rnan  feared  she  would  not  re- 
member what  he  told  her  otherwise.  There  was  no  train  till 
the  next  morning,  at  least  none  that  it  would  be  possible  for 
her  to  reach.  She  must  go  home  and  wait  till  then. 

She  hardly  knew,  afterward,  how  she  had  passed  the  time 
that  intervened ;  some  heavy  hours  of  sleep,  and  a  horrid, 
horrid  wakening.  ,The  day  was  raw  and  damp  and  chilly. 
After  she  was  in  the  cars,  it  began  to  rain.  She  felt  cold, 
so  cold,  all  the  time.  Things  looked  worse  to  her  to-day 
than  they  had  looked  yesterday.  She  was  used  to  the 
thought  now,  indeed,  it  seemed  centuries  old;  she  felt  as 
if  the  time  had  never  been,  when  she  had  not  known  poor 
Rothermel  lay  dying,  and  she  was  the  one  whose  vanity  and 
folly  had  made  it  so.  But  with  this  thought  and  its  dire 
train,  had  joined  another,  since  those  heavy  hours  of  sleep, 
and  that  was  the  thought  of  what  people  would  say  about 
her  going  to  Milford  to  see  him,  dead  or  dying,  and  throw- 
ing herself  at  his  mother's  feet  and  crying  out  for  pardon, 
what  the  Varians,  what  the  people  at  Milford,  what  the 
servants  at  home,  what  everybody  would  think  if  they  saw 
her,  practically  and  severely,  going  on  this  strange  errand ; 
what  in  fact,  was  the  character  of  this  errand,  and  whether 
she  were  wise  in  going  on  it.  A  thousand  doubts  arose ; 
she  shrank  from  the  daylight  view  of  it.  But  she  never 
thought  of  drawing  back ;  only  it  was  like  walking  to 
the  stake,  without  any  certainty  of  anything  except  the 
pain. 

She  was  quite  unused  to  travelling  alone — the  getting  her 
ticket,  the  watching  for  the  station,  were  all  so  many  alarm- 
ing things.  When  at  last  they  reached  the  station,  she 
started  as  violently  as  if  she  had  not  been  looking  for  it  for 
an  hour.  Somebody  called  out  something  about  the  Milford 
Etage ;  she  followed  the  direction  pointed  out,  and  was  put  into 
the  stage.  SLe  took  the  furthest  seat  inside  the  coach,  two 
women  fc  Mowed  her,  and  a  man,  wrapped  up  in  a  great  coat 


50  A  PERFECT  ADCNIS. 

and  with  buckskin  mittens  on.  These  were  all  the  passengers. 
The  women  talked  a  little  to  each  other,  and  complained  of 
the  cold,  or  rather  of  the  damp,  for  it  was  not  very  cold. 
The  man  looked  awkward  and  uncomfortable,  and  stamped 
his  feet  occasionally  to  keep  them  warm,  and  leaned  out  of 
the  window  very  often  to  see  if  they  were  not  soon  to  start. 
But  it  took  a  long  time  to  strap  the  two  lean  trunks  upon 
the  rack,  and  to  get  the  mail  bag  from  the  office,  and  to 
settle  well  under  the  driver's  seat  a  demijohn,  a  box  of 
herring  and  a  can  of  oil.  It  takes  a  good  while  to  do  things 
in  the  country,  particularly  in  winter,  and  when  they  have 
all  day  before  them. 

But  the  poor  young  stranger  on  the  furthest  seat — some- 
times she  felt  benumbed  and  callous,  and  then  there  woulJ 
shoot  across  this  apathy  a  fever  flush  of  trepidation.  She 
more  than  once  put  out  her  hand  towards  the  coach-door, 
with  a  sudden  ungovernable  resolve  to  fly,  to  hide  herso1/ 
till  the  train  passed  through  the  town  that  would  take  her  to 
New  York.  She  felt  at  moments  as  if  it  were  useless  for  her 
to  fight  against  the  fate  that  was  carrying  her  step  by  step 
towards  the  bedside  of  the  man  whom  she  had  injured, 
towards  the  presence  of  the  mother  who  could  not  even 
"  trust  herself  to  write  to  her,"  towards  publicity,  towards 
curious  eyes  and  busy  tongues ;  then  she  felt  at  another 
moment,  as  if  she  had  lost  all  conscience  and  all  care  for  the 
judgment  of  Almighty  God,  and  as  if  escape  from  the 
position  to  which  she  had  condemned  herself  in  her  repent- 
Mice  was  what  she  would  fight  for,  die  for,  and  be  therewith 
content.  These  were  the  struggles  that  went  on  in  her  poor 
brain,  as  she  sat  trembling,  shrinking  back  in  her  corner  of 
the  coach,  her  face  hidden  by  a  veil,  all  alone,  a  hundred 
rniJas  from  home,  going  on  such  an  errand,  naturally  so  far 
from  brave,  and  so  exaggeratedly  womanish  in  her  fear  of 
k>ng"ies  and  eyes.  Of  course,  the  cold,  hard  hand  of  con 
science  kept  her  to  the  course  on  which  she  seemed  sent  by 
fete.  Tf  it  had  been  death  to  which  she  was  going,  she  would 


A  PERFECT  AI>ONI£  51 

have  gono  as  she  went  now,  with  struggles,  but  with  cer- 
tainty. 

At  last  the  coach  started,  and  with  little  notice  from  the 
shut  houses  and  empty  sidewalks,  rolled  out  of  the  town. 
The  rain  was  now  only  a  drizzling  mist,  bat  it  ate  to  the 
very  bone.  A  coat  of  snow  must  have  been  lying  even 
yesterday  over  all  the  country,  and  to-day's  rain  was  wash- 
ing it  slowly  off.  Great  patches  of  it  lay  on  the  fields, 
and  along  the  fences,  but  "no  longer  white  and  fresh.  The 
fields,  where  they  were  uncovered,  looked  sodden  and  lifeless, 
the  roads  were  uneven  and  full  of  mud,  and  deeply  worn 
with  the  winter's  travel.  The  trees  were  still,  there  was  no 
wind,  their  bark  was  wet  with  the  rain,  their  roots  soakicg 
in  the  unwholesome  earth.  The  brook  by  the  roadside  was 
embedded  in  thick  ice,  and  silent.  A  dreary  thin  mist  hung 
low  over  the  land,  not  thick  enough  to  hide  it,  or  to  soften 
ifcs  blank  cheerlessness.  No  cattle  were  in  the  fields,  no 
life  about  the  hills.  During  their  long  drive  they  met  no 
living  creature.  The  few  farm-houses  looked  silent  and  un- 
tenanted.  Dorla  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  thought  of 
the  last  time  she  had  gone  over  this  road.  What  a  contrast 
to  this  day  was  the  brilliant  sky  of  that^  the  green  and 
vellow  fields,  the  woods  smitten  with  early  Autumn,  the 
smooth  road,  the  grassy  bank  beside  them,  the  glancing 
brook,  the  fences  touched  with  moss,  and  now  and  thei* 
twined  with  straggling  vines,  the  ferns  upon  the  rocks,  thf 
cattle  in  the  fields,  the  birds  about  the  trees,  the  squirrels 
darting  along  the  fence  beside  them.  And  oh,  the  merr*7 
and  unthinking  people  who  looked  upon  it  all,  and  said 
u  good-bye."  Dorla  said  to  herself,  which  day  is  the  dream, 
that  day  or  this.  And  not  four  months  apart. 

The  three  passengers  did  not  say  much :  they  were  shj 
country  people  and  did  not  know  each  other  well,  and  were 
perhaps  a  little  uncertain  of  their  silent  neighbor.  Dorla 
listened  eagerly  to  hear  if  anything  should  be  said  about  the 
ttoth?rmels.  She  had  kept  her  mind  busy  with  a  strange 


52  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

Bort  of  speculation,  about  the  way  in  which  she  should  prob- 
ably hear  if  he  were  already  dead.  She  said  to  herself, 
"  may  be  I  shall  meet  the  funeral  train ;  that  would  be  like 
a  novel.  Or  perhaps  some  one  will  call  out  the  news  as  we 
drive  up  to  the  post-office.  Or,  I  shall  not  hear  it  till  I 
get  into  the  house,  and  the  mother  will  point  me  to  the  room 
where  he  lies  in  his  coffin,  and  curse  me,  and  tell  me  to  go  out 
from  her  sight.  Or  as  is  more  probable,  I  shall  find  he  has 
been  dead  for  days,  and  the  raw  yellow  clay  of  some  new 
grave  will  catch  my  eye  as  we  drive  past  the  cemetery, 
Whichever  way  it  is  to  be,  how  I  wish  that  I  could  know, 
It  is  so  much  easier  to  bear  yourself  rightly  if  you  know 
what  is  to  come  upon  you." 

But  none  of  these  thing  were  to  come  upon  her,  alas. 

As  they  drove  over  the  bridge  across  the  Vandermarck, 
and  she  felt  that  they  were  in  the  village,  the  same  impulse 
to  escape  came  upon  her,  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
the  door. 

"  Do  you  want  to  get  out  here  ?  "  said  one  of  the  women. 

"  Shall  I  call  the  driver  ?  "  said  the  man,  glad  of  some- 
thing to  say  and  the  prospect  of  something  to  be  done. 

"  No  I  "  she  said  faintly,  sinking  back  into  the  corner. 
"  It  is  further  on.  No  matter." 

O,  the  village,  with  its  dismal  silent  streets,  its  shut  up 
houses.  O  would  it  ever  be  summer  again  in  it ;  would 
these  bare  trees  ever  "  flush  into  variety  again."  The  hotels 
were  partly  closed,  the  cottages  shut  up.  She  thought  of 
the  little  piazzas  grouped  with  gay  colored  dresses ;  of  the 
tirhite  parasols  flitting  up  and  down  the  village  street ;  of  the 
pretty  children  with  their  nurses ;  parties  of  pleasure  going 
off  in  the  great  wagons  to  the  woods  and  falls.  Around  the 
Btore  and  the  post-office  were  two  or  three  country  wagons 
tied ;  a  solitary  man  came  out  to  get  the  mail  bag  from  the 
driver.  Another  man  came  to  the  steps  of  the  coach  and  put 
tkis  head  in  at  the  window  to  collect  the  fare,  and  to  know 
vhere  the  four  passengers  were  to  be  set  down.  The  man, 


A  PERFECT  tlDONISL  53 

And  one  of  the  women  were  to  be  left  somewhere  about  the 
village,  near.  The  other  woman  was  to  be  taken  half-way  on 
the  road  to  Dingman's. 

"And  you,"  said  the  collector  of  the  fare,  with  a  nod, 
looking  at  Dorla.  She  gasped  for  breath,  and  spoke  twice 
before  the  words  came  clear.  He  did  not  even  then  quito 
get  the  name,  and  she  had  to  say  it  over.  He  said,  "  which 
Rothermel,"  for  there  were  two.  She  had  to  explain  where 
the  Rothermels  lived  to  whose  house  she  would  be  taken. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  a  shade  of  curi- 
osity. This  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  spoken  the  name. 
It  gave  her  a  strange  sensation. 

Hanging  by  the  coach  door,  he  called  out  to  the  driver 
to  go  on,  and  so  they  drove  down  the  main  street  of  the 
village.  One  of  the  passengers  was  to  be  left  at  the  last 
hotel  on  the  street.  There,  two  or  three  men  were  standing 
about  the  steps,  and  there  the  demijohn  and  the  box  of  herring 
were  to  be  taken  down.  The  men  talked  a  little  to  each 
other.  One  on  the  piazza  said  to  a  man  who  had  got  on  the 
box  with  the  driver : 

"  Have  you  heard  from  George  Rothermel  to-day  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  man  addressed.  "  He  was  alive  last 
night,  lying  very  low." 

"  You've  got  a  passenger  inside  for  Rotherme-1's,"  said  the 
collector  of  the  fares,  looking  up  to  the  driver ;  he  was 
"  settling "  with  the  proprietor  of  the  can  of  oil  and  the 
herrings.  "  You'll  leave  her,  as  you  take  that  other  woman 
down  to  Dingman's." 

"  AJ1  right,"  the  driver  said,  and  after  a  few  professional 
details,  gathered  up  the  reins  and  started  at  a  steady  pace 
for  Rothermel's. 

The  farm  lay  about  a  mile  and  a  half  out  of  the  village, 
on  the  river  road ;  Dorla  had  often  walked  beyond  it  in  tht 
summer.  Now,  as  they  went  splashing  and  rolling  through 
the  rough  and  muddy  road,  she  felt  as  if  it  never  were  possi- 
ble that  she  could  have  done  so.  And  yet,  when  she  first 


]r±  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

caught  sight  of  the  house,  no  longer  hidden  by  the  surround 
ing  trees,  she  felt  a  shock  as  if  they  had  come  too  quick,  and 
she  were  unprepared  for  being  there  as  soon.  *In  fact,  unpre- 
paredness  was  what  she  felt  more  than  any  of  the  emotions 
she  had  anticipated.  Though  she  had  had  so  many  hours  to 
prepare  herself,  and  had  thoughts  of  nothing  else,  she  was  in 
a  state  of  bewilderment,  and  did  not  know  what  she  should 
say,  or  whether  she  could  say  anything  at  all. 

"  Here  you  are,"  called  out  the  driver  from  his  seat ; 
while  the  woman  inside,  seeing  perhaps  her  trepidation, 
pushed  the  coach  door  open  for  her,  and  offered  to  help  her 
to  get  out.  She  stammered  thanks,  and  got  out  by  herself, 
and  tried  to  shut  the  door.  The  driver,  rather  impatient  per 
haps  at  being  brought  so  far  out  of  his  way  on  this  chilly  driz 
zliiig  day,  started  forward  abruptly,  and  left  her  standing 
alone  at  the  gate.  Before  she  got  it  open,  he  was  half-wai 
down  the  hill. 

The  house  stood  back  about  fifty  feet  from  the  road ;  a 
path  paved  with  brick  and  bordered  with  flower  beds  led  up 
to  the  small  piazza.  The  front  windows  of  the  house  were 
all  closed ;  across  the  fresh  paint  of  the  piazza  floor  tberf 
was  not  a  single  foot  mark ;  the  gate  had  opened  as  if  unused 
Of  course,  bat  Dorla  did  not  see  it,  there  was  a  second  gate 
and  a  second  path  that  led  up  to  another  entrance,  that  of  the* 
familiar  and  comfortable  region  of  sitting-room  and  kitchen. 
No  one  had  seen  her  come ;  she  was  all  alone  before  a  dead, 
silent  house,  must  she  awaken  it  ?  Even  at  that  moment 
she  felt  the  impulse  to  fly  and  save  herself.  But  instead  of 
yielding  to  it,  she  walked  to  the  door,  and  with  a  hand  that 
almost  refused  obedience,  knocked.  No  answer  came,  the 
faint  sound  died  away,  and  she  stood,  shivering  with  cold 
and  fear,  uncertain  what  to  do.  The  rain  dripped  from  the 
dead  leaves  of  the  honeysuckle  on  the  lattice ;  she  thought, 
How  strange  that  Chinese  honeysuckles  keep  their  leaves  all 
winter.  She  never  could  lose  anything,  even  in  her  greatest 
moments  of  excitement.  Then  Inr  eyes  fell  upon  some  tall 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  55 

llim  plants,  weJ  matted  from  the  winter.  "  What  can  coun- 
try people  see  in  dahlias,  that  they  take  such  care  of  them  ?  w 
ihe  thought.  "  Tall,  stiff,  artificial  things.  Oh,  if  they  don't 
come  soon  I  shall  die  of  this  damp  chill  stillness.  I  wish  the 
wind  blew.  This  is  horrible.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am 
alive  or  dead.  I  must  knock  once  again." 

And  again  she  knocked,  this  time  accidentally  making  a 
louder  noise.  Then,  after  a  moment,  came  a  sound  of  steps 
within,  and  the  unbarring  of  the  door.  At  that,  her  heart 
stood  still ;  and  when  the  door  opened  a  little  way,  and  a 
servant  appeared,  she  was  really  too  choked  to  speak  a  syl- 
lable. The  woman  asked  her  what  she  wanted,  and  that 
had  the  effect  of  rousing  her  a  little. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.  * 

The  servant  motioned  her  to  come  inside,  and  took  her 
into  a  large  square  room  at  the  left  of  the  hall,  that  might 
have  been  the  family  vault,  for  all  the  warmth  and  light  of 
it.  It  struck  a  horror  to  the  very  soul  of  the  youug  visitor ; 
it  was  as  much  worse  as  possible  than  the  raw  cold  outside. 
She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  thrust  her  hands 
tighter  in  her  muff.  The  servant  rattled  and  battered  for 
some  time  at  one  of  the  windows,  and  finally  threw  back  a 
shutter.  Then  taking  a  chair,  she  planted  it  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and  told  the  young  lady  to  sit  down,  and  went 
away.  She  was  so  cold  and  bewildered,  she  really  had  no 
thought  of  what  was  to  come;  she  saw,  as  in  a  dream,  the 
ungainly  pattern  of  the  ingrain  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  the 
photographs  in  their  oval  gilt  frames  on  the  wall,  the  big  un- 
used books,  and  the  two  or  three  shells  upon  the  table  between 
the  windows.  In  a  moment  more  the  woman  came  back,  and 
iold  her  she  had  better  come  into  the  sitting-room  and  warm 
terself ;  she'd  have  to  wait  a  while,  for  Mrs.  Rothermel  was 
mating  something  in  the  kitchen  and  couldn't  leave  it  for  a 
minute.  Thereupon,  Dorla  followed  her  into  a  room  at  the 
of  the  house.  This  room  was  long,  and  rather  nar 


56  A  PERFECT  AVONI& 

row,  running  across  the  back  of  the  house,  but  it  was  warm, 
and  had  many  windows,  which  made  it  very  light.  It  was 
home-like  and  natural,  with  no  attempt  at  ornament ;  no 
shells,  and  no  oval  photographs.  There  were  one  or  two 
deep,  comfortable,  leather-covered  chairs,  and  a  "  settee " 
with  a  turkey  red  cover  on  it ;  a  tall  clock ;  two  or  three 
hanging  book-shelves,  and  an  old-fashioned  secretary.  There 
.Tere  two  lamps  on  the  chimney  piece,  an  inkstand  and  a 
match  stand.  And  on  a  little  shelf  near,  were  some  pipes 
and  a  tobacco  pouch.  And  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  with  a 
window  on  each  side,  stood  a  small  melodeon,  and  on  it,  a  pile 
of  old  music  books,  and  some  newer  sheets  of  music.  The 
sight  of  these  things  gave  Dorla  a  strange  and  sudden  emo- 
tion. She  felt  cold  and  dull  no  longer,  but  stirred  to  the 
very  heart.  There  was  such  tin  oppressive  silence :  the  tick- 
ing of  the  clock  alone  broke  it,  and  the  careful  movements 
in  the  room  overhead. 

Presently,  the  door  leading  from  the  kitchen  opened  and 
some  one  came  in.  Dorla  recognized  in  an  instant  the 
mother.  She  was  a  sweet,  delicate-looking  old  woman, 
Drdinarily  pale,  but  to-day  a  little  flushed  with  her  work 
about  the  fire,  and  perhaps  some  agitation. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  coming  across  the  room,  and  ad- 
justing her  apron  as  she  came ;  "  I  am  sorry  you  had  to 
wait  so  long.  Sit  down,  won't  you  ?  I  don't  believe  I 
know  just  ~who  it  is.  I  find  I  don't  remember  faces  as  I 
used  to  do." 

Dorla  stood,  pale  as  ashes.  The  old  woman  went  on 
speaking  with  embarrassment. 

"  You  must  excuse  me  my  dear,  for  not  being  able  to  call 
you  by  your  name.  I  always  was  a  little  apt  to  be  fcrget- 
ful.  But  since  this  trouble,  I  am  hardly  able  to  remember 
what  I  want  to  say  from  one  minute  to  another.  I'm  all 
.instrung  and  helpless." 

And  a  little  sob  or  moan  closed  the  sentence,  and  the  pool 
roman  passed  her  hand  before  her  eyes. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  57 

"Mrs.  Rothennel,"  began  Dorla,  in  a  low  tone,  starting 
towards  her,  and  then  stopping  and  clasping  her  hands  to 
gether,  instead  of  putting  them  upon  the  broken  and  suffer 
ing  old  woman,  "  Mrs.  Rothermel,  I  don't  expect  you  tc 
know  my  face,  and  I  wish  you  did  not  know  my  name. 
You  hate  me — you  think  that  I  have  done  you  wrong; 
and  may  be  it  is  true.  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  die1 
not  mean  it — that  I  am  broken-hearted  to  have  given  any 
body  pain.  I  never  dreamed  of  making  him  unhappy,  be- 
lieve me.  I  am  not  a  girl  that  could  do  such  a  thing  as 
that ;  I  am  not  the  sort  of  person  that  you  think  me.  I 
may  have  been  foolish  and  vain.  I  suppose  I  was,  but  it 
is  not  in  my  nature  to  trifle  with  anybody.  Oh,  if  you 
could  only  know  what  I  have  suffered  since  Mrs.  Varian 
sent  your  letter  to  me,  you  would  be  sorry  for  me  a  little. 
I  came  here  without  stopping  a  moment,  even  to  think 
about  it.  I  felt  as  if  I  should  die,  if  you  would  not  say 
you  could  forgive  me.  Oh,  tell  me  that  you  can,  and  that 
you  believe  me ;  indeed,  indeed  I  speak  the  truth." 

She  held  her  clasped  hands  imploringly  towards  the 
mother,  who,  steadying  herself  by  the  table  near  which  they 
stood,  looked  at  her  bewildered.  "  And  this  is  Miss  St. 
John,"  she  taid,  slowly,  "  Dorla,  that  he  talks  about.  1 
thought  she  was  a  great  beauty,  and  always  very  fine." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  I  am  not,"  she  exclaimed,  eagerly.  "  I  au 
not  beautiful,  nor  anything.  I  am  very  plain  and  quiet, 
and  try  to  be  a  good  girl  and  do  my  duty  when  I  know 
what  it  is.  Don't  condemn  me,  don't  be  hard  on  me.  Do 
I  look  as  if  I  could  do  a  thing  like  that,  lead  a  man  on  to 
like  me,  and  then  break  his  heart.  Oh,  say  you  don't  be 
lieve  it ;  say  it  is  not  true  !  " 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it !  "  cried  the  poor  woman,  stretch- 
ing out  her  arms  to  Dorla.  "I  don't  believe  it;  and  I 
thank  God  it  isn't  true." 

Dorla  threw  herself  into  her  arms,  and  wept  with  tnt 
dwndonment  of  relief,  as  if  the  words  had  redeemed  her 


58  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

The  poor  mother  clasped  her  arms  about  her  and  wept 
her. 

"  I  could  not  believe,  for  a  long  time,"  she  said,  in  a  bro 
ken  voice  at  last,  "  that  any  one  had  meant  to  deceive  mj 
boy." 

4<  How  could  they  ?  "  said  Dorla.  "  So  kind,  and  good, 
and  so  straightforward." 

"  So  gentle  and  so  good  a  son,"  moaned  the  poor  woman. 
"  So  careful  for  his  mother  always ;  you  might  be  sure  he 
could  love  the  one  he  set  his  heart  upon.  Poor  George ! 
Oh,  if  he  only  knew." 

"  Oh,  what  a  load  you  have  taken  from  my  heart !  "  said 
Dorla,  "  since  you  say  that  you  believe  me  and  will  forgive 
me  for  what  I  have  been  so  unhappy  as  to  do.  If  I  could 
only  comfort  you  in  any  way,  or  help  you  in  any  way  to 
bear  your  dreadful  sorrow.  But  I  know  that  is  impossi- 
ble." 

"  You  have  helped  me,"  said  the  poor  woman,  with  tremb 
«ing  arms,  still  clasped  about  her.  "  It  helps  me  to  have 
no  hard  feelings  toward^  anybody  in  the  world.  I  can  bear 
it  from  God,  but  I  couldn't  bear  it  from  a  woman.  God 
Almighty  has  a  right  to  do  what  He  pleases  with  us  all.  I 
can  submit  to  Him ;  it  is  very  different  when  there  is  no 
wrong  from  any  one." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorla,  softly,  tl  I  am  sure  I  know  how  you 
ieel  about  it.  Grief  is  very  different  from  bitterness." 

"  I  never  was  one  to  have  hard  feelings,"  said  the  poor 
mother,  drying  her  eyes  as  she  sat  down  on  the  settee,  trem- 
bling still,  so  that  she  could  scarcely  stand.  "  I*  have  al- 
ways been  one  for  peace.  It  has  never  been  my  way  to  havo 
hard  thoughts  of  people.  I  have  had  a  good  many  troubles, 
first  and  last,  but  that  hasn't  ever  been  among  them.  But 
now,  when  it  came  to  George — when  it  came  to  giving  him 
np  for — for — " 

And  she  cried  again,  as  if  the  very  memory  of  the  pain 
irere  into]  ei  able,  and  Dorla,  half  kneeling  beside  her,  pressed 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  5ft 

ber  lips  upon  her  poor  shaking  hands,  and  whispered,  ct  Do 
not  say  it,  it  makes  me  so  unhappy.  " 

"No,  I  won't  say  it,"  she  answered,  suppressing  her  gobSj, 
"  For  maybe  God  meant  it  all  along.  I  know  you  did  not  do 
it  evilly,  I  know  you  are  a  good  honest  girl,  ami  he  only 
misunderstood.  " 

"  That  was  it  indeed,"  said  Dorla,  eagerly.  "  You  know 
how  easy  it  is  to  be  led  all  astray  by  some  little  word,  some 
little  bit  of  a  mistake." 

"  Yes  "  said  Mrs.  Rothermel,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  know 
how  that  can  be  ;  for  I  know  how  near  George's  father  was 
to  going  away  and  never  speaking,  for  some  little  thing  I 
did  and  never  meant  it.  Men  are  so  quick  ;  they  don't  stop 
to  reason  when  they  are  in  love,  they  think  a  woman  mean^ 
every  thing,  and  never  think  that  she  has  feelings  too." 

Dorla  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  her  face :  she  saw  she  had 
been  misunderstood,  but  she  had  not  the  hardihood  to  put 
her  companion  right,  though  she  tried  to  say  something  to 
correct  th3  error  without  wounding  her  with  the  hard  truth, 
But  her  incoherent  words  passed  for  agitation;  the  poor 
mother  only  put  her  arms  again  around  her,  and  passed  her 
hand  tenderly  over  her  hair ;  and  she  felt  her  tears  fall  upon 
her  head.  Oh !  how  they  scorched  and  burned  her  !  This 
was  worse  than  it  had  been  before.  The  poor  mother 
thought  they  had  a  common  sorrow.  "  If  I  could  only 
ftiake  her  understand,"  thought  Dorla,  in  an  agony  of  per- 
plexity. But  it  was  not  easy.  She  had  found  one  to  whom 
she  could  speak  of  her  darling,  and  she  poured  out  her 
Inart  in  broken  words  of  confidence. 

"  So  handsome,"  she  said,  "  so  clever,  so  much  above  all 
the  young  men  about  him.  He  could  have  married 
anybody,  anybody  that  he  had  wanted.  But  he  had  never 
looked  at  any  of  them — never  could  be  coaxed  or  teased  into 
liking  any  girl  in  all  the  country  round.  People  said  he 
held  himself  above  them  because  he'd  had  a  college  educa- 
tion and  had  money.  But  it  wasn't  that,  it  was  because  ha 


§0  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

was  above  them,  because  he  was  so  different,  because  he  wat 
himself — my  pocr,  handsome,  good  boy  !  "  Then  wringing 
her  hands.  ff  O,  don't  you  think  God  might  hear  yet,  might 
listen  if  we  both  asked  to  have  him  live.  Can't  you  think  of 
some  words  to  say !  Maybe  I  haven't  said  everything  I  ought. 
My  head  feels  so  I  cannot  think  of  things.  Pray  for  him  if 
you  can  my  child.  Pray  for  him — ask  God  to  let  him  stay." 

Dorla  had  in  her  pocket  a  little  book,  one  of  the  red- 
edged  family  that  afforded  Harriet  Varian  so  much  innocent 
amusement,  and  she  took  it  and  began  to  look  for  a  prayer 
she  had  said  many  times  already  for  poor  George,  since  she 
heard  of  his  condition.  She  was  still  kneeling  by  Mrs. 
Rothermel,  with  her  arms  in  her  lap,  and  she  only  bent  her 
head  lower,  and  read  the  prayer  in  a  voice  just  audible. 
There  was  a  long  silence ;  then  Mrs.  Rothermel,  kissing  her, 
said  it  had  been  a  comfort  to  her. 

"And  now,  my  dear,"  she  continued,  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  face  as  she  got  up,  "  you  had  better  come  up  and 
see  him." 

Dorla  felt  the  hot  flush  all  over  her  face  again  as  she 
heard  this. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  not,"  she  said,  recoiling  involun- 
tarily. The  mother  looked  startled  and  pained. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Do  you  think  it  would  make  you 
feel  badly  ?  He  is  not  so  very  much  changed.  He  is  like 
a  picture,  he  is  so  handsome  and  so  still." 

"  Perhaps  it  might  shock  and  startle  him  to  see  me  sud- 
denly," she  faltered,  holding  back. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  poor  mother  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  All 
the  world  might  come  into  his  room  and  he  wouldn't  know 
it.  It  is  days  and  days  since  he  has  noticed  any  one.  He 
is  past  that,  my  dear,  ah,  long  past  that." 

Dorla's  hat  had  fallen  to  the  floor ;  she  stooped  to  pick  it 
up,  trembling  all  over.  What  should  she  do  ?  Mrs.  Roth- 
ermel  held  out  her  hand ;  she  wondered  in  her  heart  that 
Doi  la  could  hesitate  a  moment  about  looking  upon  that  fee* 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  61 

again.  She  began  to  feel  that  she,  for  her  part,  had  been 
too  many  minutes  out  of  sight  of  it  already ;  precious  min- 
utes of  which  there  were  so  few  left  to  her.  The.  pull  upon 
her  heart  was  always  felt  when  he  was  out  of  her  sight,  and 
had  been  ever  since  he  was  a  baby. 

Dorla  conquered  the  strong  feeling  that  made  her  recoil 
from  this  step. 

"What  difference  can  it  make,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  Perhaps  I  owe  it  to  him  to  look  once  more  upon  him,  and 
pray  beside  his  death-bed  for  forgiveness  for  the  vanity  that 
killed  him." 

She  took  the  mother's  hand,  and  followed  her  out  of  the 
room  and  up  the  stairs.  When  they  came  to  the  door  of 
the  sick-room  they  paused.  No  sound  came  from  within, 
but  the  regular  motion  of  a  rocking-chair,  in  which  an  el- 
derly stout  woman  sat,  near  the  tire.  The  mother  pushed 
open  the  door,  and  they  entered.  There  was  a  strong 
smell  of  vinegar,  and  Dorla  shivered.  How  she  hated  the 
smell  of  vinegar.  "  Why  do  country  people  always  have 
vinegar  about  the  room  when  any  one  is  ill,"  she  thought, 
as  they  approached  the  bed.  "  And  why  are  their  souls  PC 
bound  up  in  patch-work  quilts." 

Thus  she  stood,  thinking  these  very  grovelling  thoughts, 
beside  poor  George's  bed,  and  seeing  the  stars  and  flowers  of 
*.h?>  pattern  on  the  counterpane  with  the  same  eyes  that 
looked  on  his  death-stricken  face.  The  woman  by  the  fre 
got  up  and  came  towards  them  in  manifest  curiosity,  £<>*• 
I^orla's  beautiful  hair  had  partly  fallen  down,  and  the  emo- 
tions that  had  been  dyeing  her  cheeks  and  filling  her  eye*, 
made  her  look  very  lovely,  and  the  old  woman  could  no* 
Imagine  who  she  was  and  whence  she  came.  The  mother 
let  go  her  hand,  and  stooped  with  irresistible  desire  towards 
the  poor  sufferer  on  the  bed.  She  smoothed  his  hair, 
touched  his  forehead  with  her  hand,  and  laid  the  sheet  softly 
v.ver  his  wasted  arms.  Dorla.  stood  tall,  and  erect,  and 
titan  t,  looking  down  at  him. 


82  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  How  do  you  think  lie  looks  ?  "  said  the  woman,  in  hei 
ordinary  voice,  addressing  Dorla.  Dorla,  shocked  at  the 
tone,  made  some  whispered  answer.  "  Oh,  you  needn't  be 
afraid  to  speak  loud,"  she  said.  "  He  doesn't  hear  a  thing." 

."  Nothing  disturbs  him  now,"  said  the  poor  mother,  witL 
tears,  speaking  low  from  instinct. 

The  woman  whom  they  had  found  in  the  room,  and  who 
was  a  neighbor,  was  a  little  deaf,  and  was  quite  determined 
to  enter  into  communication  with  Dorla,  and  satisfy  her 
curiosity.  She  made  many  observations,  and  at  last,  Dorla, 
shocked  and  frightened,  and  anxious  to  put  an  end  to  the 
conversation,  answered  her  in  her  usual  voice,  possibly  a 
little  heightened.  At  this  sound,  strange  and  wonderful  re- 
sult !  The  figure  on  the  bed  moved  slightly  ;  a  little  con- 
traction passed  over  the  features,  the  eyes  opened,  and  after 
an  instant  of  amazed  uncertainty,  a  smile  of  intelligence 
came  into  the  eyes,  and  lifting  his  feeble  hand,  he  said, 
u  You  have  let  me  come  !  " 

A  low  cry  of  joy  burst  from  the  mother,  who  raised  her- 
iself  up  quickly.  The  neighbor,  with  an  exclamation  of 
amazement,  pushed  Dorla  forward,  who  stooped  and  took  his 
hand  in  hers.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  gazed  at  her  with 
an  expression  of  earnestness  and  satisfaction;  then,  with  a 
long  breath,  he  turned  slightly  upon  his  side,  and  seemed  to 
sleep  quietly  and  naturally.  He  still  held  her  hand,  not  re- 
laxing his  hold  when  his  eyes  closed. 

"  He'll  come  round  all  right  now  !  "  cried  the  old  woman, 
ai  exultation.  "  He's  past  the  crisis  and  has  taken  the 
right;  turn." 

Poor  Mrs.  Rothermel  trembled  and  wept  with  joy,  bend- 
:ng  down  to  kiss  Dorla,  and  whispering  she  had  saved  him. 

"  He  hasn't  noticed  any  one  for  more'n  ten  days  now," 
went  on  the  woman  in  attendance.  "  He  hasn't  heard  if 
/ou  shouted  at  him  (she  was  shouting  now  it  seemed 
to  Dorla).  He's  been  like  the  dead,  but  he's  taken  the 
right  tarn.  See  how  he  sleeps  there,  like  a  baby,  and  hif 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  63 

ayes  are  shut.  He'll  pull  through  now,  you  mark  my 
words." 

There  was  no  need  to  mark  her  words,  it  was  enough  to 
mark  the  changed  and  relaxed  face  on  the  pillow,  and  to 
Aear  the  even  and  regular  breath  that  came  from  his  lips. 
The  house  was  in  a  tumult.  One  went  to  summon  the 
doctor ;  the  mother  was  wild  with  the  sudden  hope ;  even 
the  phlegmatic  old  woman  was  restless  with  excitement. 
Only  Dorla  sat  as  if  in  a  trance,  holding  the  thin,  heated 
hand  in  hers,  feeling  the  mother's  tears  and  kisses  raining 
on  her  cheek,  praying  that  God  would  hear  her  prayers,  and 
not  punish  her  for  her  cold  and  stony  heart ;  for  she  was 
not  glad  he  was  coming  back  to  life.  It  was  all  like  a 
dream. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  come,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  then 
asked  God  to  forgive  her,  when  she  seemed  to  have  saved  a 
life  by  coming;  when  He  seemed  to  be  granting  what  she 
had  been  constantly  asking  for  since — since  when?  This 
time  yesterday  she  had  not  heard  that  he  was  ill.  It  was 
not  twenty-four  hours  since  she  had  been  quietly,  and 
complacently,  and  comfortably  at  home,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  she  had  been  in  trouble  and  perplexity  for  years,  and  as 
if  she  were  now  almost  hardened  and  remorseless. 


It  was  night,  and  Dorla  was  alone  in  the  spare-room  of 
the  house,  which  was  unused,  C(5id,  and  strange.  A  great 
fire  was  burning  in  the  stove,  but  it  seemed  to  make  no  im- 
pression upon  the  dead  cold  air  of  the  room.  The  result 
most  forcible  to  her  senses,  was  an  unfamiliar  and  disagree- 
able smell  of  heated  iron,  and  a  giddy  moving  sensation  in 
the  air,  such  as  you  see  when  the  stove  is  between  you  and 
the  daylight.  She  crept  into  the  bed;  it  was  like  lying 
down  in  the  sea  and  drawing  the  ice  up  around  you. 

<(  If  I  could  get  warm  I  really  would  not  mind  auy- 
»uing,"  thought  the  poor  girl,  shivering.  "If  I  only  could 


64  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

get  warm,  I  really  am  so  tired  I  know  I  could  get  asleep, 
without  thinking  of  anything  at  all." 

There  was  a  slight  smell  of  kerosene  oil  which  came  from 
the  lamp  which  she  had  just  put  out,  and  she  buried  her 
head  in  the  icy  pillow,  with  an  irritated  sense  of  misery. 
What  was  it  to  her,  she  thought,  all  the  remorse,  and  ex- 
citement, and  bewilderment  she  had  gone  through  ?  Noth 
ing  if  she  could  only  get  warm,  and  stop  smelling  disagree- 
able things.  It  was  nothing  to  her  that  the  doctor  had 
pronounced  this  man  likely  to  live,  this  man  whom  she  had 
come  a  hundred  miles  to  see,  this  man  who  had  held  her 
hand  and  called  her  Dorla,  whose  mother  had  wept  upon 
her  neck,  and  called  her  daughter,  whose  very  neighbors 
had  spoken  to  her  as  if  she  had  loved  him  and  had  come  to 
mourn  him.  It  was  nothing  to  her,  all  this  entanglement 
and  trouble,  nothing,  if  she  might  once  feel  warm  again  and 
get  asleep.  Having  suffered  all  she  was  capable  of  suffer- 
ing mentally,  the  carnal  part  of  her  took  up  the  fight,  and 
carried  it  on  with  i  fierce  rancor,  It  was  almost  dawn 
before  she  slept. 


n. 


|T  vas  nearly  five  o'clock,  a  soft  lovely  afternoon  in 
May,  and  Dorla  was  on  her  knees  in  church, 
whsre  she  had  been  much  and  often  of  late.  This 
was  the  last  time  that  she  would  come,  till  she  came 
to-morrow,  to  be  married.  Plenty  of  time  she  had  had  to 
think  it  over,  since  that  dreary  February  day,  when  she 
had  found  George  Rothermel  was  going  to  live, — plenty  of 
time,  but  not  plenty  of  help;  and  her  own  miserable 
thoughts  had  always  revolved  in  one  dark  circle. 

"  I  shall  never  be  happy  myself.  Can  I  make  others  so  ? 
Sacrifice  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world.  I  have  it  in  my 
power  to  benefit  others  by  a  sacrifice."  Poor  child.  It  is 
hard  to  fight  these  battles  alone,  and  not  always  wise.  That 
afternoon,  in  her  agony  of  uncertainty,  she  had  risen  from 
her  knees,  and  had  cast  so  appealing  a  look  towards  the 
clergyman  as  he  passed  out  of  the  church,  that  he  had  been 
startled  and  perplexed,  and  had  half  turned  back  to  speak 
to  her.  But  it  was  unconventional ;  there  were  others  yet 
in  church.  So,  full  of  uncertainty  also  whether  he  had  not 
mistaken  the  glance,  he  went  away  into  the  robing-room, 
and  after  he  had  laid  aside  his  surplice,  returned  into  the 
church,  to  find  that  every  one  else  had  gone,  and  Dorla  had 
sunk  again  upon  her  knees.  He  lingered,  wishing  that  she 
might  look  up,  and  give  him  a  chance  to  speak  to  her. 
But  there  is  such  a  barrier  of  ice  between  priest  and 
jjeople — conventionalities,  customs,  precedent.  What  young 
girl  would  not  rather  die  than  go  to  a  distant,  dignified 
gc  ntleman  for  whom  she  has  the  veneration  of  girlhood  for 
\niddle  age,  Df  parishioner  for  pastor,  and  pour  out  her 


66  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

miserable  heart  and  ask  counsel  ?  He  is  a  voice  speaking 
to  her  from  the  clouds,  and  bringing  her  a  blessing  out  of 
Heaven;  but  he  knows  no  more  of  the  state  of  her  soul 
than  if  she  had  none.  She  has  never  heard  of  any  one 
who  has  done  the  like  befo  e  She  does  not  knew  what 
language  to  speak  to  him  in ;  she  has  never  talked  to  him 
except  in  dist\nt  courtesy  before,  and  she  does  not  know  if 
he  could  understand  her.  She  has  always  had  to  keep  her 
own  soul  herself,  and  she  does  not  know  but  that  it  is  her 
duty  to  go  on  keeping  it.  If  she  were  a  criminal,  prepar- 
ing for  the  scaffold,  of  Bourse  she  knows  she  would  have 
the  benefit  of  a  clergyman  to  help  her.  It  would  be  con- 
ventional and  right  for  her  to  send  for  one,  or  for  one  to 
present  himself  and  offer  help.  But  being  only  a  pooi 
young  creature,  trying  to  live  well  and  to  get  ready  to  dw 
righteously,  at  an  uncertain  date,  it  may  be  presumptuous, 
or  worse,  ridiculous,  to  ask  for  counsel  and  for  help. 
Undoubtedly  it  is  her  duty  to  live  on  generalities,  and  to 
govern  her  soul  by  the  broad  rules  that  are  given  out  for 
the  government  of  the  hundreds  of  other  souls  in  the  same 
cure.  Poor  Dorla!  There  wasn't  anybody  else  in  the 
congregation  condemned  to  marry  George  Rothermel  to- 
morrow from  a  sense  of  duty ;  and  a  little  particular  aid, 
in  the  rendering  of  the  law  of  sacrifice,  would  have  been 
like  a  draught  of  fresh  water  on  a  salt  sea.  As  well  expect 
a  fever  patient  to  take  charge  of  his  own  case  because  he 
has  heard  many  courses  of  lectures  on  medicine  since  he 
was  a  boy.  Dorla  had  heard  as  many  sermons,  and  read  aa 
many  "  good  books,"  as  most  persons  of  her  age,  and  had  a 
much  stronger  desire  than  most  of  them,  to  do  what  was 
right ;  and  yet  she  was  on  the  brink  of  doing  what  was 
most  unwise,  nay,  of  what  was  absolutely  wrong,  because 
there  was  no  one  to  tell  her  what  was  duty,  and  what  was 
not,  no  one  to  show  her  what  had  blinded  her  and  why  she 
was  so  confused. 

And  the  only  one  to  whom  she  would  fcunij  by  reason  of 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  67 

her  isolated  position,  was  one  who,  by  the  cold  rule  of  cus- 
tom and  the  age,  was  further  off  than  any  other.  He  longed 
to  help  her,  longed  to  know  what  was  going  on  in  her  heart, 
but  there  was  no  right  by  which  he  felt  he  could  go  to  her, 
and  ask  such  confidence,  there  had  been  no  intercourse 
before  that  could  sanction  him  in  doing  so ;  the  officer  of 
the  bank  who  paid  her  over  her  dividends  would  have  been 
just  as  much  entitled  by  precedent  to  penetrate  to  the 
sanctuary  of  her  heart  as  he. 

"  We  are  too  far  off  from  our  people,  we  Anglicans,"  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  took  up  his  respectable  hat  and  went 
away,  leaving  poor  Dorla  on  her  knees.  <c  What  do  I 
know  of  my  charge  till  they  come  to  die.  Then  if  there  is 
time  and  inclination,  and  all  things  fitting,  they  open  their 
hearts  to  me.  I  am  not  the  shepherd  of  the  living  but  of 
the  dead.  I  know  no  more  of  the  condition  of  these 
hundreds  of  souls  than  I  know  of  the  condition  of  their 
wardrobes  or  of  the  condition  of  their  bank  accounts.  Are 
they  growing  or  are  they  dwindling  ?  All  cannot  bear  the 
same  meat.  All  are  not  capable  of  guiding  themselves. 
I  only  know  of  my  work  by  its  end,  or  by  a  notorious 
failure.  When  a  soul  goes  to  open  ruin,  I  hear  of  it,  but 
then  it  is  too  late.  A  spiritual  coroner.  These  people 
live  no  pastor." 

And  he  went  away  with  a  heavy  sigh.  For  he  was  a 
man  of  large  and  tender  heart,  and  much  wisdom  and 
insight  into  spiritual  things.  But  he  was  by  nature  shy 
and  awkward,  and  as  unfitted  as  a  very  young  and  shrinking 
person,  from  breaking  through  conventional  rules,  and 
forcing  an  entrance  where  there  was  none  established. 

And  so  Dorla  was  left  to  her  fate ;  and  it  did  her  no 
good  that  she  was  left  unwillingly.  As  has  been  said,  she 
had  had  plenty  of  time  to  think,  but  her  thoughts  were  all 
tainted  by  a  morbid  and  unjust  view  of  life,  and  her  judg- 
ment was  full  of  error.  She  had  said  to  herself  again  and 
again,  **  I  shall  never  be  happy.  I  shall  never  love  any  one 


68  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

particularly.  My  life  benefits  no  one.  Harry  has  left  me, 
and  it  is  a  mockery  to  say  I  can  do  him  any  good.  As  for 
this  man  who  loves  me,  I  have  done  him  a  wrong.  I  own 
him  reparation.  It  will  make  him  happy  if  I  marry  him. 
— and  his  dear  good  mother — kind  good  p«ople,  whc 
through  me  have  suffered  a  great  deal.  If  I  disappoint 
them  now,  and  undeceive  them  about  my  feelings  for  him, 
I  shall  perhaps  double  the  wrong  I  have  already  done.  He 
knows  I  do  not  love  him,  as  people  taik  about  love  gener- 
ally, but  that  does  not  appear  to  matter  to  him — and  I 
need  not  tell  him  how  bitter  and  impossible  it  seems  to  me 
to  marry  him.  It  is  because  I  am  so  selfish,  that  I  feel 
so  ;  because  I  am  not  willing  to  live  for  others  and  sacrifice 
myself.  What  better  could  I  do  than  this  ?  God  surely 
will  be  pleased  with  me.  This  will  be  laying  down  my 
life.  Dying  would  be  so  much  easier.  What  makes  it  so 
very  hard  ?  I  cannot  tell,  except  that  I  am  so  very  selfish, 
and  think  so  much  about  myself.  I  do  not  dislike  him ;  I 
should  like  him  very  well  if  it  were  not  for  this.  I  am 
very  fond  of  his  mother ;  she  is  sweet,  and  always  so  good 
to  me.  It  is  very  foolish  that  I  cannot  get  used  to  it,  that 
she  expresses  herself  differently  from  ourselves  and  that  she 
signs  herself  Mrs.  A.  Rothermel.  That  would  be  a  fine 
reason  for  refusing  to  be  her  daughter-in-law,  and  for  making 
her  unhappy  for  the  remainder  of  her  life.  I  think  I  shall 
have  to  find  a  better  reason  than  that  for  being  so  unkind. 
And  what  reason  have  I  ?  Reason — none,  nothing  but  feel- 
ings, instincts,  impulses.  I  would  rather  die  to-morrow 
than  marry  him.  I  would  rather  go  out  as  a  servant.  I 
would  rather  go  into  a  prison  where  I  should  never  see  the 
sun  again.  And  why  ?  There  is  no  why — only  because  1 
feel  so.  I  like  him  ;  I  think  him  kind,  good ;  I  think  him 
handsome.  There  is  no  other  man  I  want  to  marry.  There 
is  no  oth?r  that  I  have  ever  liked  or  ever  fancied  that  I 
liked.  Have  I  any  right  to  listen  to  these  feelings  ?  Have 
1  any  right  to  break  the  heart  of  a  m  in  who  has  so  faith 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  69 

fully  lo^ed  me?  to  wound  one  who  had  been  so  good  to 
me  ?  Why  what  a  ruin  it  would  make  of  those  two  live?  \ 
They  seem  to  care  for  nothing,  to  plan  for  nothing,  but  fo* 
me.  I  can't  think  what  would  happen  to  them  if  I  were 
suddenly  to  tell  them  all  the  truth.  No,  I  will  not  tell 
them.  They  shall  never  know,  and  I  will  try  to  do  my 
duty  always.  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  helped  if  I  try  honestly. 
People  always  are  helped  in  getting  through  their  duty.  Be- 
sides what  choice  have  I?  I  owe  it  to  them.  I  have  got 
to  do  this  thing.  No  matter  whether  the  sin  that  drew  this 
on  me  seems  little  or  great  to  me.  It  only  seems  a  little 
vanity  that  made  his  admiration  sweet  to  me.  That  is 
because  I  am  not  careful  about  my  soul,  and  do  not  know 
what  sin  is.  Yes,  it  was  a  sin,  and  I  am  to  be  punished  for 
it  all  my  life.  Well,  I  should  be  glad  that  I  can  pay  for  it 
here.  I  will  pay.  I  promise  before  God  I  will  not  draw 
back.  There !  Am  I  not  bound.  Why  should  I  not  rest 
now  and  stop  torturing  myself?  And  yet — O,  I  don't  fee\ 
as  if  to-morrow  could  come,  as  if  God  would  let  it  come. 
I  am  sure  something  will  happen.  I  know  I  shall  never 
stand  before  that  altar  to  say  those  words  to  him.  And 
yet  why  not  to  him  as  well  as  to  any  one.  People  say  them 
every  day.  Perhaps  they  always  feel  so  when  they  are 
making  up  their  minds.  No,  I  don't  mean  that  exactly.  I 
know  that  is  not  so.  But  maybe  love  comes  after,  and  it- 
is  not  wise  to  wish  to  feel  too  much.  Oh,  my  foolish 
dreams  !  O,  all  the  hopes  and  castles  and  pictures !  They 
tre  not  to  mean  anything !  Life  is  very  different  from  all 
that.  I  make  a  sacrifice  of  all  these.  I  bury  them.  I  am 
only  going  to  live  for  duty  and  for  Heaven,  and  when  I  am 
old,  I  shall  say  how  much  better  it  was  that  I  bore  this  in 
my  youth." 

-  These  were  some  of  the  thoughts  that  went  through  poor 
Dorla's  mind  as  she  knelt  in  church  and  tried  to  pray. 
Poor  child ;  she  got  up  at  last,  and  went  away — away,  tc 
h3i  lonely  home,  where  the  prosaic  preparations  for  to-mor 


70  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

row  met  her  eyes  whichever  way  she  turned  them,  Mid  where 
it  was  only  better  to  be,  because  she  could  not  think  a§ 
ceaselessly  and  uselessly  as  she  did  in  church.  One  cannot 
live  always  at  high  tragedy  pitch  ;  and  by  to-morrow  she  was 
tame  and  dull  enough  to  please  even  her  own  sense  of  duty. 
She  literally  did  not  care  what  happened  to  her — and  though 
to  the  last  moment  she  never  lost  her  faith  that  something 
would  happen  to  prevent  the  marriage,  it  was  only  a  faint 
surprise  to  her  to  find  that  nothing  did,  and  that  she  was 
married  to  George  Rothermel.  She  went  through  the  service 
with  quiet  self-possession,  and  the  clergyman,  who  had  been 
haunted  with  her  wild  appealing  look  of  the  night  before, 
was  quite  reassured,  and  accused  himself  of  great  folly,  and 
congratulated  himself  that  he  had  not  exhibited  it  by  speak- 
ing to  her  in  the  church. 

Very  few  witnessed  her  marriage,  and  fewer  still  came  to 
the  house  afterward, — for  poor  Dorla  knew  very  fev  people, 
and  was  shy  of  asking  even  those  she  knew.  Some  middle- 
aged,  quiet  people  who  had  been  her  mother's  friends,  the 
elderly  gentleman  who  was  her  guardian,  a  school-mate  (with 
whom  she  had  exchanged  the  inevitable  girlish  promises), 
and  some  plain  out-of-town  connections  of  the  Rothermels, 
were  all  who  were  invited.  The  Varians  were  away,  to 
Dorla's  great  relief — (all  the  discussion  of  her  resolutior 
had  been  by  letter).  Every  one  talked  in  low  tones,  and 
appeared  ill  at  ease ;  it  was  not  very  festive.  Only  Dorla 
seemed  quite  unembarrassed  and  quiet.  She  went  about 
among  the  guests  in  her  white  clothes,  apparently  forgetting 
that  she  was  a  bride,  ana  got  pictures  for  some  children  to 
iouk  at,  and  made  the  old  ladies  comfortable,  and  provided 
for  the  wants  of  every  one,  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way. 
George  stood  in  an  awkward  rapture  of  bliss.  He  was  the 
only  one  of  the  party  who  at  all  came  up  to  the  requirements 
of  the  occasion.  Some  one  congratulated  her  on  the  fine 
weather,  and  she  looked  inquiring. 

"  O,  I  forgot,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.      But  it  wasn't 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  71 

much  of  a  laugh.  It  might  have  been  somebody  else's  wed- 
ding for  all  the  sentiment  she  had  about  the  sun's  shining 
on  her.  Even  when  she  went  to  cut  the  bride-cake,  followed 
by  three  or  four  awe-struck  children,  she  seemed  principally 
intent  upon  having  them  each  take  a  very  large  slice.  And 
upon  the  conclusion  of  a  congratulatory  speech  from  her 
guardian,  she  turned  to  a  servant  and  begged  that  the  base- 
ment door  should  be  shut,  and  the  smell  of  fried  oysters  if 
possible  kept  below,  showing  that  she  had  not  followed  the 
good  gentleman's  remarks,  nor  appropriated  any  of  the 
flowers  of  speech  with  which  he  had  been  strewing  her 
path. 

It  was  not  a  very  picturesque  nor  a  very  brilliant  begin- 
ing,  her  young  school-mate  thought,  who  had,  with  her,  often 
whispered  confidential  anticipations  about  this  great,  this 
inevitable  day,  "  this  day  their  souls  had  singled  out  of  time 
and  marked  for  bliss."  Certainly  it  was  rather  tame,  rather 
disappointing.  Middle-aged  people,  and  people  not  much 
used  to  society,  might  have  thought  it  all  very  well,  but  to 
Dorla's  contemporaries  it  was  chilling,  and  Dorla,  witb  all 
her  beauty,  was  not  at  all  one's  ideal  bride,  and  had  an  ex- 
pression that  would  have  suited  much  better  black  serge  and 
starched  muslin,  than  lace  and  orange  flowers.  Altogether 
it  was  incongruous,  and  the  young  people  were  glad  to  go 
away. 


[FTER  all  the  high  tragedy  of  the  time  preceding  her 
marriage  day,  the  dullness  of  the  day  itself,  and  the 
weariness  and  discomfort  of  the  days  of  her 
redding  journey,  it  was,  perhaps,  illogical  and  common* 
place,  but  Dorla  became  rather  happy  and  contented.  She 
loved  the  country  with  all  her  nature,  and  had  a  feeling  of 
thankfulness  that  she  was  to  be  in  it  always,  and  thought 
of  the  life  she  had  left  without  regret.  There  was  great 


78  A  PEllFECT  ADONIS. 

relief  in  knowing  that  everything  was  settled,  and  that 
she  need  ask  herself  no  more  questions.  She  had  great 
need  of  rest,  and  it  was  almost  happiness  to  her  to  have 
it.  The  country  was  lovely  ;  there  was  much  beauty  in  her 
new  home,  with  all  its  simplicity,  and  she  was  left  a  great 
deal  to  herself.  No  one  preyed  upon  her  and  demanded  her 
attention,  as  in  the  days  of  that  weary  wedding  journey. 
G-eorge  was  away  almost  all  the  day,  either  about  his  farm 
business,  or  at  his  law  office  in  the  village.  And  dear  old  Mrs. 
Rotbermel  was  so  happy,  and  so  proud  of  her  daughter-in-law, 
she  made  herself  her  slave,  and  was  consequently  busy  as  a 
slave  from  morning  to  night.  Dorla  had  a  pony-carriage  and 
a  pony  which  she  could  drive  herself;  she  had  the  blessed 
woods  in  which  to  roam  and  be  silent,  the  fields  in  which  to 
be  free  and  to  breathe  the  sunshine ;  ferns,  violets,  anemones, 
clover,  butter-cups,  and  wild  roses.  These  were  the  things 
that  always  came  into  her  mind  when  she  recalled  that  first 
month  of  her  country  life.  She  had  always  spent  June  in  the 
city  before ;  this  was  a  revelation  to  her.  The  garden  beds 
were  full  of  the  trophies  that  she  brought  from  her  long 
rambles  in  the  woods.  To  be  sure  they  never  lived,  but  it 
was  such  an  occupation,  such  an  interest  to  her — dear  little 
ferns,  how  she  loved  them,  and  how  delicious  the  smell  of 
the  soft  brown  earth.  Sometimes  they  grew  on  such  beau- 
tiful pieces  of  rock,  and  then  she  dragged  home  as  much  of 
the  rock  as  she  could  carry,  and  put  them  in  the  shade,  and 
hung  over  them  day  by  day  with  solicitude.  The  house  was 
filled  with  moss-covered  bits  of  branches,  with  tassels  of 
chestnut  blossoms,  with  curious  leaves,  with  wild  buckwheat, 
with  endless,  endless  bunches  of  ferns  and  vines.  What  a 
lunacy  it  must  have  seemed  to  the  dear  old  mother-in-law ! 
But  everything  that  the  beautiful  young  creature  did,  who 
bad  come  to  make  George  happy,  was  right,  and  to  be  ap- 
proved in  her  eyes.  The  l(  brakes  "  and  dead  branches  were 
ill  sacred,  and  she  would  not  even  call  old  bird's  nesti 
rubbisU. 


A  PERFECT  ADOPTS:  73 

Dorla  did  not  know  anything  of  country  housekeeping, 
and  would  fain  have  learned,  obedient  to  her  sense  of  duty. 
But  bids  was  desecration.  The  old  mother  only  lived  to 
serve  her,  and  she  was  permitted  to  have  no  share  in  any 
.  house)  told  duty.  It  was  quite  en  regie  for  her  to  have  any- 
thing she  wanted,  and  no  innovations  were  looked  upon  aa 
painful.  Her  own  room  was  refurnished  for  her  by  Georgf 
before  she  came,  and  was  very  fresh  and  pretty.  The  parloi 
was  a  sorrow  to  her,  and  George  had  divined  it  after  a  fe\* 
days,  so  that  was  all  changed.  And  before  June  was  over, 
it  was  really  a  charming  room,  white  matting,  white  muslin 
at  the  windows,  pale  cretonne  over  the  horse  hair  offences, 
some  pretty  pictures  that  Dorla  had  brought  with  her,  two 
or  three  quaint  and  graceful  chairs,  a  screen,  some  candle- 
sticks and  vases  for  the  mantelpiece.  All  the  fireboard 
abomination  was  done  away  with,  some  old  andirons  brought 
from  the  garret,  and  a  low  fender,  and  there  on  cool  evening? 
blazed  a  cheerful  fire.  A  marble-topped  table,  whose  ugli- 
ness made  one  quail,  was  covered  with  cretonne  to  match 
the  furniture,  and  a  fluted  border.  There  stood  the  pretty 
lamp,  some  new  books  cut  and  uncut,  Dorla's  dainty  work 
basket,  and  a  vase  of  flowers.  The  room  was  quite  a  pleas- 
ure to  her.  In  the  morning  it  was  full  of  sunshine  ;  in  the 
afternoon  it  was  cool  and  shadowy.  George  considered  it  a 
miracle  of  art,  and  his  mother  brought  her  visitors  to  see  it, 
on  tip-toe,  as  if  it  were  asleep  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 
They  sat  in  the  sitting-room,  and  Dorla  was  not  always 
called  to  see  them.  Of  course  they  did  not  like  her,  with 
all  her  graciousness ;  the  one  thing  people  never  forgive,  ia 
superiority.  All  were  sure  Dorla  did  not  want  to  knovr 
them,  and  felt  she  was  above  them.  This  was  the  one  little 
trial  that  obscured  the  ferns  and  the  violets,  and  made  her 
tccasionally  remember  that  there  were  other  things  besides 
these  inanimate  ones,  that  would  have  to  be  faced  by- 
and-by,  and  that  she  could  not  rest  forever  and  dream 
as  she  was  doing  n:>w.  Why  don't  they  like  me  when 


74:  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

George  and  his  mother  do  so  much?  sle  wondered  into 
cently. 

^or-je  was  so  devoted  and  so  good  to  her,  and  so  proud 
of  her,  she  would  have  been  a  heathen  if  she  had  not  begun 
to  feel  some  kind  of  affection  for  him.  He  also  had  a  good 
deal  of  delicacy,  and  did  not  bore  her  very  much,  and 
was  so  happy,  he  was  willing  to  do  all  that  any  body  asked 
of  him,  and  that  was  a  good  deal,  between  his  law  and  his 
farm.  He  had  some  tact,  and  soon  saw  what  pleased  her, 
what  expressions  to  avoid,  what  occupations  to  keep  out  oi 
sight,  what  interests  to  assume.  Added  to  this  he  was  very 
good-looking,  and  had  learned  to  dress  himself  in  good  taste ; 
she  was  less  and  less  offended  every  day,  and  was  gradually 
surrounded  by  the  refinements  that  were  necessary  to  her. 
If  she  had  put  it  into  words,  she  would  have  said,  "  How 
thankful  I  ought  to  be  that  I  did  my  duty.  Now  I  am 
really  happy."  It  was  indeed  a  pleasure  to  be  worshipped 
and  waited  on  by  two  such  people  as  George  and  his  mother ; 
and  she  felt  all  the  time  that  without  any  effort  of  her  own, 
she  was  making  them  entirely  happy.  And  the  little  shadow 
of  the  neighbors'  disapproval  fell  across  her  path  but 
seldom. 

Thus  June  wore  away ;  and  it  was  like  being  awakened 
out  of  a  peaceful  dream,  when  one  afternoon  early  in  July, 
Harriet  Varian's  shrill  voice  arrested  her  half  way  up  the 
cliffs  that  rose  from  the  orchard  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  brought  her  down  to  level  ground,  and  to  the  realization 
that  the  city  influx  had  indeed  begun. 

"  Why,  Dorla,  child,"  cried  Harriet,  kissing  her  enthusias- 
tically, "  we've  been  here  since  yesterday,  and  you  haven't 
been  to  see  us.  I  surely  thought  you  would  have  been 
down  before  we  were  through  breakfast." 

"  I  don't  go  to  the  village  every  day,"  said  Dorla,  with 
embarrassment,  ctand  I  had  not  heard  that  you  had 
x>me." 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  do  you  do,  if  you  don't  go  to  tb« 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  7fi 

tillage  ?  "  Harriet  asked.  "  I  should  think  it  woul  d  be  the 
only  thing  to  do.  You  must  come  and  stay  a  few  days  *  t 
the  hotel  with  us  after  every  body  comes." 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  that,"  said  Dorla,  h.  rriedly. 

"  But  it's  going  to  be  really  nice  this  year,"  said  Harriett 
r'  Excellent  people  coming.  We  shall  have  a  capital  time 
Indeed  a  good  many  are  here  already,  but  things  never  get 
started  for  a  week  or  two  you  see.  You  know  you  came 
just  in  the  midst  of  it  all  last  year.  It  does  seem  so  funny 
Dorla,  to  think  of  your  being  married,  and  settled  here,  of 
all  places  in  the  world,  and  of  all  people  in  the  world,  to 
poor  George  Kothermel !  If  anybody  had  told  us  last  sum- 
mer, do  you  think  we  could  have  believed  it  possible.  Ah! 
what  droll  things  do  happen  !  " 

Doiia's  very  throat  grew  crimson  as  these  words  were 
spoken,  of  which  Harriet  made  a  note,  for  it  was  all  she 
could  see  under  the  shade  hat  of  her  companion,  and  tried 
to  turn  the  subject,  but  went  back  to  it  again  from  very 
fascination. 

"  What  do  you  do  here  all  day  long  ?  "  she  said  again, 
looking  curiously  towards  her. 

"  Do  ?  why  amuse  myself  and  walk  and  drive  as  peo- 
ple generally  do  in  the  country,"  said  Dorla,  with  some  dig- 
nity. 

"  O,  then  you're  not  busy,  not  occupied  about — about  the 
;  ouse  ?  " 

"  O,  no ;  I  don't  milk  the  cows,  if  you  mean  that,  nor  make 
ihe  beds,  nor  bake  the  bread.  Mrs.  Rothermel  is  very  fond 
of  housekeeping,  and  she  has  two  excellent  servants,  and  I 
tun  only  in  the  way  about  those  matters." 

"  Ah,"  said  Harriet  much  enlightened,  (this  had  been  one 
of  the  objects  of  her  visit);  "and  you  don't,  really,  now 
mind  the  country  so  very  much  ?  " 

By  the  country  she  meant  George  Itothermel,  marrying 
oelow  her  and  marrying  from  a  sense  of  duly,  but  Dorla 
mly  chose  to  take  it  literally. 


T6  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"Mind  it,"  she  exclaimed,  "wh^  I  think  it  is  a  paradise^ 
und  I  hope  I  may  live  here  all  my  life." 

Harriet  gave  an  exclamation  of  delight,  and  called  her  a 
plucky  darling;  she  did  not  believe  her  exactly,  but  she 
liked  to  have  people  stand  up  to  their  colors,  and  she  was 
glad  to  be  relieved  of  a  little  weight  that  had  rested  on  that 
part  of  her  that  she  called  her  conscience.  If  Dorla  declared 
she  was  so  happy,  there  was  an  end  of  it  forever.  She  gave 
her  a  little  hug,  and  proceeded  to  ask  her  a  great  man} 
questions,  and  to  be  very  curious  in  her  inspection  of  every 
thing.  Dorla  felt  it  would  have  to  be  endured  once,  and  it 
might  as  well  be  now  as  any  time.  So  she  answered  pa- 
tiently, and  explained  the  surroundings  as  well  as  she  could. 
They  walked  leisurely  through  the  orchard  and  garden,  and 
came  towards  the  house  from  the  side.  "  What  room  is 
this,"  she  asked.  "  Is  it  your  parlor?  And  this,  the  sitting 
room  ?  And  that's  where  the  family  sit  ?  " 

t(  The  family,"  said  Dorla  with  a  flush,  "  the  family — do 
you  mean  Mrs.  Kothermel.  She  sits  there,  yes,  sometimes — 
so  do  I." 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  Now  let  us  go  and  see  the  parlor."" 
Harriet  was  charmed  with  the  parlor,  with  the  porch,  with 
the  yard  and  the  old  trees  in  front.  In  fact  she  had  begun 
to  think  of  it  as  a  delightful  place,  and  to  wonder  whether 
Dorla  wouldn't  invite  her  often  to  make  up  parties  and 
come  out  there  to  tea.  She  pressed  her  arm  affectionately 
as  this  thought  passed  through  her  mind. 

"  It  is  all  charming,"  she  said,  "  you  are  delightfully  fixed, 
iind  you'll  have  a  lovely  summer.  Everybody  at  the  hotel 
Is  crazy  to  see  you,  and  you'll  be  quite  the  rage." 

"  O,  thank  you,"  returned  Dorla  rather  curtly,  "  I've  hau 
enough  of  rages." 

"  O,  nonsense.  Don't  talk  that  way,"  said  Harriet,  with 
slight  embarrassment,  and  then  hastened  to  change  the  sub- 
ject. "  Now  let  me  tell  you  my  great  news.  Who  do  you 
think  is  coming  in  a  day  or  two  ?  " 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  77 

u  1  can't  imagine,  unless  it  is  your  brother. 

"  Exactly.  How  came  you  to  guess  it  ?  Yes.  Felix  ia 
»n  the  briny  even  now,  and  may  be  expected  to  appear  at 
any  moment." 

"  How  very  nice  for  you.  Your  mother  must  be  BC 
glad." 

"  Yes  ;  I  really  never  wanted  to  see  him  so  much  before. 
He  has  been  away  almost  three  years.  And  he  is  a  great 
sensation  already.  Now  if  you  had  not  got  married,  think 
how  you  would  have  been  delighted  with  his  coming ;  the 
girls  at  the  hotel  are  quite  excited  at  the  prospect  you  must 
know." 

"  I  can  imagine  it,"  said  Dorla,  with  a  smile.  "  Well,  the 
ranks  are  thinned  by  one.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  be 
counted."  But  she  did  not  look  sorry,  Harriet  thought ;  and 
as  she  drove  away  she  said  to  herself  sagely,  that  it  takes 
very  little  to  please  a  woman  with  a  sense  of  duty. 

And  Dorla,  as  she  was  left  alone,  reflected  that  if  Harriet 
Varian  were  to  come  there  often,  she  should,  persuade 
George  to  take  her  to  some  remoter  wild,  till  the  summer 
invasion  was  at  an  end  and  done. 


|AKRIET  YARIAN  did  come  there,  every  day,  foi 
the  next  week ;  Dorla  found  she  must  get  used  to 
it,  and  George,  to  her  amazement,  appeared  to  like 
it  very  much.  For  she  brought  a  great  many  people 
with  her,  talked  incessantly  about  the  beauty  of  the  place, 
and  made  George  feel  of  some  importance.  A  very  pleasant 
way  to  be  made  to  feel.  It  seemed  a  very  fine  thing  to  him 
to  have  two  or  three  carriages  before  the  gate  every  after- 
uoon,  and  to  see  fine  ladies  wandering  over  the  yard  and 
orchard,  and  to  hear  people  in  the  village  say  they  wew 
getting  to  be  very  gay. 

He  begged  Dorla  to  have  a  tea-party,  and  was  chagrined 


78  .1  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

at  her  aversion.  He  wanted  her  to  drive  to  the  village 
every  morning,  and  (f  to  see  something  of  people."  lie  sent 
baskets  of  fruit  to  Mrs.  Yarian  and  Mrs.  Bishop,  and  seemed 
inclined  to  assume  the  duty  of  showing  hospitality  to  all 
Milford  and  its  dependencies.  Dorla  sighed  and  resigned 
herself.  This  was  not  the  way  of  making  him  happy  that 
she  had  promised  herself,  but  she  supposed  it  was  a  good 
discipline  for  her,  and  that  her  feelings  were  selfish.  "  It 
was  very  easy  to  make  him  happy  when  it  was  only  to  do  as 
I  liked.  Now  I'll  try  to  be  as  amiable  when  it  comes  to 
doing  as  I  don't  like." 

At  the  end  of  a  week  a  tea  party  had  been  forced  upon 
her.  "  Only  six  or  eight  people  to  begin  with,  George.  If 
we  find  it  a  success,  it  will  be  easy  to  have  a  larger  one  next 
week." 

George  was  full  of  interest  about  it,  Mrs.  Rothermel  was 
full  of  care  and  business  about  it,  and  Dorla  tried  to  be 
interested  and  be  patient.  It  was  a  fine  clear  summer 
morning,  and  when  she  had  watered  her  poor  pining  little 
ferns,  and  the  languishing  rhododendron  that  she  had  trans- 
planted from  the  hillside,  she  began  to  think  that  she  had 
some  preparations  to  make  for  the  fete,  and  so  she  adjusted 
the  parlor's  toilet  with  many  dainty  little  touches,  and  then 
went  out  into  the  garden  and  gathered  an  armful  of  roses 
and  gay  flowers  and  brought  them  in,  putting  them  in  a 
gorgeous  heap  upon  a  table  before  her,  and  then  collect- 
ing all  the  empty  vases  and  glasses,  filled  them  with  water, 
and  set  them  on  the  table. 

The  parlor  looked  very  pretty ;  the  windows  were  open, 
and  a  little  sunshino  came  in  through  the  vines  without  and 
the  muslin  curtains  within.  Everything  was  so  dainty  and 
fair.  She  lelt  very  young  and  happy,  notwithstanding  the 
Impending  toa-party ;  she  sang  a  little  as  she  filled  the  vases. 
A.t  last  there  came  a  sound  she  did  not  love,  the  sound  of 
Harriet  Varian's  voice,  accompanied  by  other  voices,  and 
the  stopping  of  a  vehicle  outside  the  gate. 


A  PERFECT  ADONI&  ft 

1  I  shall  not  go,"  she  said,  as  she  heard  her  name  called 
ihrilly.  "  If  she  wants  me,  she  will  have  to  corne  in  to  see  me. 
No  doubt  there  is  somebody  new  she  wants  me  to  ask  to-nigh  tj 
but  I  shall  not  be  imposed  on.  No  one  else  shall  come." 

After  a  moment  more  of  calling,  Harriet  was  heard  open- 
ing the  gate  and  running  down  the  path.  Not  waiting  to 
knock,  she  ran  into  the  hall,  and  dropping  her  glasses  off  her 
nose  when  she  saw  Dorla,  she  hurried  up  and  kissed  her. 
She  was  more  out  of  breath  than  usual. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  out,"  she  said,  with  a  little  annoy- 
ance. "  Quick  !  call  George  and  get  your  things  on,  we're 
going  to  the  Ramonskill  for  the  morning,  and  we  want  you 
and  George  to  get  the  pony  carriage  and  go  with  us.  Come, 
there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"  I  can't  go,"  said  Dorla,  "  for  George  isn't  here.  Be- 
sides I  go  to  the  Ramonskill  every  day,  and  it  isn't  any  nov- 
elty to  me." 

"Nonsense  !  It  isn't  to  see  the  falls,  but  we've  got  a  jolly 
party,  and  we'll  have  a  good  time.  The  Da  vises  are  here, 
and  the  Bishops,  and  that  new  girl  from  Boston.  And  be- 
sides, Felix  has  come,  and  I  want  to  have  you  see  him." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Dorla,  with  interest.  "Felix!  Oh,  how 
glad  you  must  be  about  it." 

"  Yes,  he's  outside  in  the  wagon  with  the  others,  and  he 
promised  to  come  in,"  she  said,  re-instating  her  glasses  and 
peering  out  towards  the  gate.  "  I  thought  he  was  following 
me.  He  is  so  lazy."  And  she  ran  out  and  down  the  path 
to  the  great  wagon,  where  three  on  a  seat  and  closely 
packed,  was  gathered  the  beauty  and  chivalry  of  Milford. 

"  Felix,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  you  ought  to  be  ashamed. 
Why  didn't  you  come  when  I  asked  you  to  ?  I  don't  know 
what  she'll  think  of  you." 

"  But  she  is  coming  with  us,  and  it's  so  early  to  make  a 
•all,"  said  Felix,  not  moving  from  his  seat.  He  was  sitting 
by  the  new  girl  from  Boston,  who  was  very  clever  and  suffi- 
ciently pretty,  and  was  amusing  him. 


£0  ^  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

"  She  isn't  coming  with  us,"  exclaimed  Harriet,  impa- 
tiently. "And  considering  everything,  it's  the  least  you 
can  do,  to  go  in  a  moment  and  be  introduced  to  her." 

"  Mr.  Varian  has  never  seen  her,  or  he  wouldn't  need 
a  second  invitation,"  said  Mr.  Bishop  from  the  driver's 
seat. 

"  It  won't  take  you  a  moment.  Come,"  urged  Harriet, 
not  giving  up  her  ground. 

"  It  will,  it  will  take  me  five,"  said  Felix,  quite  unmoved. 

"  Felix,"  remonstrated  his  sister  in  a  lower  tone,  "  I  really 
am  annoyed  at  this ;  you  might  at  least  be  civil  to  my 
friends." 

"  That's  always  my  intention,  Harriet,  but  you  have  so 
many  of  them." 

"  Well,  then  you  won't  get  an  invitation  for  the  tea  to- 
night, and  you  will  be  the  loser." 

"  O,"  cried  the  Boston  girl  with  vigor,  "  go  then,  Mr. 
Varian,  and  we'll  wait  for  you  an  hour.  Go,  for  you  must 
get  an  invitation  for  the  tea  to-night." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  assent  to  this,  and  Felix  with  a 
little  grimace,  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and  followed  his  sister 
deliberately  up  the  path,  across  the  threshold,  and  into  the 
hall.  Harriet  plunged  into  the  parlor  in  her  headlong  way, 
and  Felix  stood  at  the  parlor  door,  and  looked  in.  Dorla 
got  up  from  the  table  with  its  heaps  of  flowers  j  she  still  had 
a  branch  or  two  of  roses  in  her  hand,  and  she  came  a  little 
forward,  looking  bright  and  interested,  yet  somewhat  shy. 
Felix  said  quietly  to  himself,  as  he  looked  at  her,  "  It  is  the 
prettiest  creature  that  I  ever  came  across,"  but  aloud  he  said 
<x>me  pleasant  commonplace,  and  then  began  to  rummage  in 
hist  memory  for  all  that  his  sister  had  told  him  of  this  one 
of  her  innumerable  friends.  The  circumstances  of  her  mar- 
riage came  out  gradually  in  his  rnind,  like  a  half  developed 
photograph,  as  he  went  on  talking,  and  his  curiosity  became 
quite  keen.  So  keen,  that  for  a  moment  he  forgot  himself 
and  Harriet  had  to  say  twice : 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  81 

w  Isn't  it  a  pity,  Felix ;  Dorla  says  she  can  not  go  nth  m 
to-day." 

"  A  pity  indeed.  But  surely,  Mrs.  Rothermel,  you  are  no* 
going  to  lose  this  beautiful  day  in  the  house." 

"  Why  no,  but  Mr.  Eothermel  is  not  here,  and  I  dare  not 
drive  myself,  since  a  little  accident  that  happened  when  1 
was  driving  alone  last  week." 

"  But  mayn't  I  drive  you  ?  "  he  said  quite  eagerly,  com- 
ing forward  into  the  room. 

"  O,  thank  you,"  she  returned  with  a  little  hesitation, 
"  that  would  be  breaking  up  the  party." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  They  will  be  glad  of  the  extra  room. 
The  wagon  is  over-crowded.  Mayn't  we  arrange  it  so  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,"  said  Harriet,  "  that's  the  very  thing.  And 
we  needn't  wait  for  you.  We'll  go  on,  and  you'll  overtake 
us,  for  you'll  drive  so  much  faster  than  we  do." 

''But,"  said  Dorla,  blushing,  "there's  another  thing;  all 
the  men  are  away  on  the  farm,  and  there's  nobody  to  harness 
Jenny." 

11 O,  we  can  manage  that  I'm  sure,"  said  Felix,  firmly. 
"  If  you'll  only  show  me  the  way  to  the  stable,  Jenny  shall 
be  ready  in  a  moment." 

(f  As  to  that,"  said  Dorla  relenting,  "  I  believe  there  is  a 
boy  down  below. the  orchard,  if  we  could  only  make  him 
hear." 

"  I  am  sure  we  could,  Mrs.  Rothermel.  Shall  we  go  and 
try?" 

"  But  about  the  >thers — they'll  think  it  very  rude." 

"  O,  I'll  make  it  all  right.  You  come  on  as  fast  as  you 
can,"  said  Harriet,  disappearing  down  the  path. 

The  young  Bostonian  was  bitterly  chagrined ;  Felix  had 
forgotten  her  clever  existence,  too  much  even  to  come  back 
and  apologise  for  his  desertion.  He  lifted  down  Dorla's 
hat  from  a  peg  in  the  hall,  and  followed  her  out  into  the 
orchard.  It  was  tbe  perfection  of  a  summer  morning,  cool 
in  the  shade,  warm  in  the  sun,  with  a  fresh  breeze  from  th<» 


62  ^  PERFEJT  ADONIS. 

west,  and  a  sky  without  a  cloud.  They  walked  across  tht 
orchard,  and  then  looked  into  the  field  beyond. 

"  I  don't  see  him,"  said  Dorla,  "  I'm  afraid  we've  had  out 
trouble  for  nothing." 

"  O,  that  would  be  hard  indeed." 

"Well,  but  it  would,  if  you  had  to  harness  the  pony." 

"  I  like  to  harness  ponies." 

<l  But  call,  at  any  rate ;  maybe  he's  gone  to  sleep  behind 
the  bushes,  somewhere." 

" But  what  shall  I  call?" 

"O,  I  forgot.  Why,  Tim's  his  name.  Timothy  Mo- 
Laughlin  if  you  want  to  be  precise." 

But  no  calling  was  of  the  least  avail.  Dorla  sat  down  on 
tne  rocks,  and  Felix  went  to  the  furthest  extremity  of  the 
orchard,  and  called  in  vain. 

"  You  see  it's  only  wasting  time,"  he  said,  coming  back 
to  her.  "  The  boy  is  hunting  squirrels  in  the  woods." 

"  That  comes  of  having  a  farm  bounded  by  such  tempta 
tions,"  said  the  young  mistress  of  it,  getting  up.  "  The 
cliffs  on  one  side,  and  the  river  on  the  other.  When  a  boy 
isn't  fishing  surreptitiously,  he's  hunting  squirrels,  as  to-day. 
I  never  wanted  Jenny  harnessed  yet,  but  there  were  two 
hours  wasted  in  looking  up  a  boy." 

"You  should  learn  to  do  it  yourself,  Mrs.  Rothermel. 
Let  me  give  you  a  lesson,  No.  1,  to-day." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth  I  am — a  little  afraid  of  Jenny." 

Felix  didn't  tell  her  so,  but  he  thought  it  was  lovely  for  a 
/oung  woman  to  be  afraid.  Tt  was  a  long  while  since  he 
had  seen  one  who  was  afraid  of  anything.  The  Bostonian 
ras  a  distinguished  whip. 

"  The  fact  is,  Jenny  kicks  a  little.  And  it's  nc  pleasure 
Co  me  now  to  drive,  even  when  she  goes  quite  quietly.  I'm 
always  thinking  what  she  may  possibly  do  rext." 

They  went  back  across  the  shady  orchard,  and  througb 
the  sunny  garden,  and  paused  at  the  steps  of  the  porch.- 

"  You  will  have  to  come  with  me,"  he  said,  "  for  I  havi 


A  PERFECT  ADONI&  83 

BO  idea  where  A.he  pony's  regalia  is  kept,  and  where  the  pony 
is  herself." 

"  O,  I  will  show  you,  only  I  cannot  help  you  much,  I  am 
afiaid.  I  don't  know  a  great  deal  about  the  barn." 

The  barn-yard  was  by  no  means  a  model  one — old  wagons, 
old  wheel-barrows,  a  precarious  path  to  the  barn-door ;  Dorla 
picked  her  way  across  with  a  little  misgiving,  but  though 
her  companion  was  the  finest  of  fine  gentlemen,  she  did  not 
feel  half  the  awe  of  him,  that  she  would  have  felt  of  good- 
natured  Mr.  Bishop,  or  prim  and  tiresome  Oliver.  He 
went  before  her,  and  unfastened  the  great  barn-door,  which 
swung  open,  and  then  followed  her  in.  The  other  doors  were 
wide,  and  the  whole  place  was  sunny  and  nice  smelling, 
though  in  anything  but  good  order.  The  floor  was  strewn 
with  hay,  the  bins  that  held  the  grain  were  open,  and  grain 
strewed  the  floor.  Tim  had  done  a  little  carpentering  too ; 
here  were  some  squirrel  traps  half  finished,  and  a  saw  and 
hammer  and  many  things  about.  Harness  hung  around  in 
all  stages  of  decay,  on  all  the  posts  and  hooks  ;  here  was  the 
pony's  fine  new  silver-plate,  and  there  was  the  old  working 
leather  of  the  oxen.  On  one  side  of  the  place  stood  a  thrash- 
ing machine,  dingy  and  dusty  since  last  year's  use ;  on  the 
other  stood  the  dainty  little  pony  carriage,  half  covered  with 
a  sheet. 

"  Tim  keeps  the  carriage  here  for  his  convenience,"  said 
Dorla,  "  though  there  is  a  carriage-house  just  across  the 
yard.  And  here  is  Jenny.  See  how  nice  she  is.  Now 
don't  you  wish  shfe  didn't  kick." 

Jenny  began  a  little  winnowing  when  she  saw  her  mis- 
tress, and  put  her  head  out  over  the  stall,  to  which  her  mis- 
tress responded  by  patting  her  cautiously  with  her  hand. 
u  O,  Mr.  Varian,  how  will  you  manage  it.  See  you  will 
have  to  go  out  that  door,  and  in  there,  and  bring  her  round 
—do  ptease  be  careful  that  she  doesn't  kick." 

Mr.  Varian  laughed  and  promised  to  be  careful,  and 
dusted  off  a  box  and  placed  it  on  the  opposite  side  under  th« 


g*  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

hayloft  anl  invited  Dorla  to  sit  down.  He  proceeded  ta 
bring  Jenny  from  her  stall,  and  then  Dorla  said,  (l  but  wher€ 
are  her  things?  " 

"  Oh,  there  they  are,  see,  against  the  door." 

"  Some  of  them,"  said  Felix,  laughiog.  "  But  not  all. 
Tim  must  have  some  other  favorite  cranny  for  them.  Let  m<& 
see.  Ah,  here." 

"  Do  you  call  that  the  head  stall,  Mr.  Varian.  What 
goes  on  first  ?  Oh,  now  I  see."  And  so  on,  till  the  pony 
was  harnessed. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Rotherinel,  do  you  think  you  could  hold 
Jenny,  while  I  uncover  the  carriage  and  turn  it  round." 

"  O,  yes  ;  but  oughtn't  you  to  have  done  that  first  ?  "  said 
Dorla,  critically.  She  tried  to  be  very  brave,  but  looked  a 
little  uneasy  as  she  held  the  bridle. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  her  companion.  "  She  won't  be 
likely  to  kick  with  her  head  you  know,  and  her  heels  are 
very  remote  at  present." 

Reassured,  Dorla  held  Jenny's  head,  and  watched  him 
while  he  pulled  the  carriage  out  and  shook  out  the  cushions, 
and  the  rug,  and  forgot  the  pony's  heels  enough  to  think — 
"  He  is  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw.  Yes, 'Harriet  was 
quite  right  in  all  she  said.  A  perfect  Adonis.  But  so  nice 
and  pleasant.  How  glad  I  am  he's  come." 

In  a  moment  more,  Jenny  was  led  out,  and  all  was  ready. 
"  There  now,  Mrs.  Rothermel,  you  see  how  short  a  time  it 
took  to  do  all  that :  you  will  do  it  yourself  after  the  next 
lesson,  and  I  will  sit  and  watch.  Shall  we  shut  the  barn 
door,  or  leave  it  open  and  give  Tim  a  fright  ?  " 

ff  Leave  it  open  by  all  means,  and  please  lead  Jenny 
round  to  the  front  door  and  tie  her  there.  O,  I  shall 
have  to  open  the  gate  for  you."  So  Dorla  ran  before  and 
opened  the  gate,  and  then  walked  by  Felix,  while  he  led  the 
pony  to  the  post  and  tied  him  under  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

"  I  have  to  go  in  for  my  parasol  and  hat,"  she  said. 
"  Will  you.  wait  in  the  parlor  for  me  ?  "  He  followed  her 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  gft 

up  the  path  and  into  the  house,  and  then  as  she  looked  ia  at 
the  parlor-door,  she  exclaimed,  "  O,  the  poor  flowers,  I  quit? 
forgot  them  !  They  will  be  withered,  and  there  are  no 
more  in  the  garden.  What  shall  I  do  about  it  ?  And  I  am 
to  have  a  tea-party  to-night." 

"Yes,  so  I  heard,"  said  Felix.  "And  am  I  to  be  in 
vited  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  so.  On  account  of  harnessing  Jenny, 
1  feel  that  it  is  owing  to  you.  Yes,  you  shall  be  invited ; 
dismiss  all  fears  about  it,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall  do  in  the 
matter  of  these  flowers  ?  " 

"  Why,  arrange  them  in  water  and  I  will  help  you. 
See,"  and  he  placed  a  chair  for  her  and  proceeded  to  pour 
water  from  the  pitcher  into  the  nearest  vase. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  cried,  "  there  is  no  time.  It  would  take  me 
half  an  hour  to  arrange  them  as  I  want ;  no,  you  must  put 
them  all  in  water  any  way  while  I  am  putting  on  my  hat, 
and  then  I  will  arrange  them  after  I  get  back." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  sitting  down  before  his  task  and 
taking  up  the  first  flowers  that  came  to  hand.  "  I  don't 
know  a  great  deal  about  it,  but  I'll  do  my  best."  She 
looked  back  laughing  as  she  reached  the  door  and  said,  "  the 
Bteins  go  in  the  water."  Felix  sat  in  a  sort  of  maze,  after 
she  went  out,  with  a  half  smile  on  his  lips,  and  the  unusual 
work  did  not  proceed  far  in  his  hands.  He  put  a  few  of  the 
biggest  flowers  in  the  water  in  an  awkward  attitude,  ant1 
then  he  put  two  or  three  roses  in  his  buttonhole,  and  then 
he  gave  up  the  duty  and  walked  around  the  room,  and  took 
up  Dorla's  books,  and  looked  at  her  hand- writing  on  the  fly- 
leaves, and  took  up  her  M  ork -basket ;  and  then  examined  al. 
the  pictures  on  the  wall.  And  before  he  was  qtite  satisfied 
about  them  all,  Dorla  came  down  with  her  hat  and  gloves 
ML 

"The  flowers,"  she  said,  disapprovingly,  "fir.  Varian. 
"Why  didn't  you  io  as  you  said  you  would  ?  " 

"  O,  Mrs.  Rothermel,  see  what  an  expression  thos,^  gerani 


86  A  PERFECT  ADCHTIA 

urns  huve  !  They  do  not  satisfy  me.  I  put  them  in  the 
fase  and  they  discouraged  me.  You  must  see  I've  TIO  voca 
tion.  I  did  not  think  flowers  could  look  so  ugly." 

"  But  you  know  it  will  save  them  from  wilting  all  the 
Bame  !  Well  we  might  as  well  give  up  going,  for  it  will  be 
too  late  after  I've  put  them  all  in  water." 

"  O,  by  no  moans,"  cried  Felix,  with  alacrity.  "  See,  i*. 
will  not  take  five  minutes.  I  will  hold  your  gloves,  I  will 
hand  you  the  flowers,  I  will  pour  out  the  water.  It  is  only 
for  you  to  put  them  in  the  vases." 

"  But  you  will  not  understand,"  said  Dorla,  taking  off  her 
gloves  arid  handiog  them  to  Felix,  as  she  sat  down  by  the 
table.  (t  You  will  not  understand  that  this  is  not  their 
final  disposition,  this  is  not  even  dress  rehearsal." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  it  would  break  their  spirit  to  be  made 
to  look  like  those  ungainly  things  I  put  into  the  vase.  I 
really  was  afraid  of  the  effect  upon  them." 

"  I  really  am  afraid  of  the  effect  upon  Harriet  and  the 
others,"  said  Dorla,  adjusting  the  flowers  that  Felix  handed 
to  her.  "  It  will  be  high  noon  before  we  reach  the  Kamon- 
skill,  and  if  they  have  waited  for  us  they  will  be  anything 
but  amiable." 

"  They  will  have  no  reason  to  complain,"  said  Felix. 
»'  For  this  is  a  party  made  up  with  the  sole  object  of  showing 
me  the  Ramonskill,  all  the  rest  have  seen  it ;  and  if  I  am 
satisfied  to  come  back  without  seeing  it,  no  one  is  concerned 
in  it  but  me." 

"  O,  Mr.  Yarian,  this  makes  it  even  worse !  A  party  for 
your  pleasure,  and  you  kept  away  by  me  !  Let  us  hurry. 
I  shall  never  be  forgiven.  There,  those  geranium  leaves 
must  go,  I  can  get  plenty  more  of  them.  And  those  ver- 
benas !  Ah,  I  haven't  time.  But  here,  you  shall  have 
this  for  your  good  intentions."  And  she  broke  off  a  little 
spray  of  sweet  verbena,  and  gave  it  to  him  for  his  button- 
'icle,  at  the  same  time  fastening  a  piece  of  it  into  her  dress. 
Then  tying  a  veil  on,  and  putting  OD  her  gloves,  whic> 


A  PERFECT  ADCNIR.  87 

Felix  gave  her  singly,  as  they  went  out,  she  led  the  way 
down  to  the  gate.  Felix  put  her  in  the  carriage,  and  ar- 
ranged the  skirts  of  her  pretty  cambric  dress,  FX>  that  it 
should  not  touch  the  wheel,  and  then  took  his  place  besid« 
her.  A  very  light-hearted  and  happy  pair,  they  bowled  away. 
The  summer  morning  was  beautiful  to  them.  Life  at  that 
moment  a  happy  holiday  affair.  People  called  Felix  a 
little  blase;  he  did  not  look  so  now.  They  said  young 
Mrs.  Rothermel  was  too  shy  and  too  distraite  to  be  absolutely 
pleasing.  No  one  could  say  that  of  her  to-day. 

It  was  a  lovely  drive  along  the  river.  Felix  never  for- 
got it ;  it  always  came  back  to  him  in  a  glow  of  sunshine 
and  verdant  beauty.  The  broad  valley  before  them  was 
laughing  with  corn ;  the  cliffs  above  them  were  dark  and 
green.  They  quite  forgot  they  ought  to  hurry.  Dorla  saw 
some  of  her  beloved  ferns  high  up  on  some  rocks  beside  the 
road,  and  Felix  scrambled  up  to  get  them.  While  the  road 
was  even  and  hard,  as  it  was  along  the  river,  they  drove  or 
rapidly  with  the  soft  wind  in  their  faces ;  but  when  they 
turned  off,  up  the  hill,  they  loitered  and  drove  very  lei- 
surely. The  hill  was  so  steep,  Felix  got  out  and  walked  be- 
side the  little  carriage,  tenderly  mindful  of  the  interests  of 
Jenny.  There  is  a  nice  little  view  at  one  point,  where  you 
look  over  a  mile  of  tree-tops,  with  a  faint  blue  mountain 
glimpse  beyond  ;  that  they  stopped  and  talked  about.  And 
Dorla  told  Felix  why  she  liked  it,  though  she  had  driven 
past  it  fifty  times  at  least,  and  had  never  before  felt  that  she 
wanted  to  talk  to  any  one  about  it.  And  Felix,  though  it 
was  but  a  month  since  he  left  Switzerland,  felt  in  it  a  charm 
that  all  that  land  had  lacked.  The  hill  was  steep,  and 
though  they  were  not  in  a  hurry,  at  last  the  top  was  reached, 
and  they  turned  into  the  grove  where  the  horses  are  tied, 
and  tr.3  wagons  left  on  the  way  down  to  the  falls. 

"  TW  wagon  is  not  here,"  said  Dorla,  in  a  little  conster- 
nation, hesitating  to  get  out.  " Where  3an  they  have  gone  ?  '' 

a  Perhaps   they  have  left    the  wagon    somewhere  else,* 


88  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

urged  Felix,  insisting  upon  her  getting  out,  "  we  snail  find 
them  at  tLe  falls." 

"  But  they  always  tie  the  horses  here,"  said  Dorla.  "  It 
U  the  only  place.  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  go  back,  1 
urn  afraid  they  did  not  like  it." 

"  Depend  upon  it  they  are  down  below.  Besides,  being 
here,  are  we  not  wise  to  see  the  falls  ?  It's  no  novelty  to 
you,  but  you  know  I've  never  seen  them." 

So  Jenny  was  tied  to  a  tree,  and  they  started  down  the 
Bteep  path  through  the  woods.  Halfway  down  they  found 
a  piece  of  paper  pinned  upon  a  tree,  informing  them  that 
the  party  had  grown  tired  of  waiting  longer,  and  had  gone 
home  by  the  Brewery.  It  was  a  testy  little  document, 
signed  by  all  the  party  excepting  the  young  Boston  woman, 
who  disdained  the  pleasantry.  Dorla  was  annoyed,  and 
wanted  to  go  back. 

"  Now  see,"  said  Felix,  "  how  foolish  that  would  be,  we 
cannot  overtake  them,  we  are  within  five  minutes  of  the 
falls,  and  shall  lose  a  pleasant  walk  by  turning  back  be- 
cause they  badgered  us."  So  Dorla  yielded,  and  they  would 
have  lost  a  pleasant  walk  by  going  back.  Having  dismissed 
the  spectre  of  the  waiting  party,  they  gave  themselves  up  to 
tha  enjoyment  of  the  moment.  They  went  over  the  falla 
an  1  under  the  falls ;  they  followed  the  stream  down  farther 
th*n  Dorla  had  ever  followed  it  before ;  they  found  a  hun- 
dred charming  spots  that  she  had  never  seen  before.  It  was 
so  cool  and  sprayey  and  musical  down  below  the  rocks ; 
being  high  noon  now,  the  cool  and  the  spray  were  welcome  ; 
they  could  not  talk  much  the  water  made  such  a  noise.  It 
wa&  a  very  steep  path  to  get  up  again,  and  very  slippery, 
for  the  ground  was  covered  with  pine  needles  ;  but  Felix 
had  cut  a  stick  for  Dorla,  and  with  that,  and  his  hand  at 
tbe  worst  places,  she  reached  the  plateau  opposite  the  fall, 
und  there  they  sat  and  rested.  "  And  that  is  the  bridal 
reiJ,  undoubtedly,"  said  Felix. 

w  I  wonder  if  there  ever  were  falls   that   hadn't  a  faint 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  §* 

little  misty  one  that  they  called  the  bridal  veil?"  said 
Dorla. 

"  Co-extensive  with*  human  discovery.  A  misty,  chilly 
phenomenon  loveliest  in  the  distance." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Dorla  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"  Well,  you  have  recent  and  reliable  experience.  I  can 
only  speculate,"  said  her  companion  with  a  little  shrug,  at 
the  same  time  he  glanced  quickly  at  her.  She  was  silent 
and  he  saw  a  faint  clouding  of  her  face,  a  weary  common- 
place look,  as  if  the  world  were  not  so  brilliant  and  gay 
after  all ;  in  truth  she  was  thinking  of  the  incongruous,  dull 
wedding  party,  and  of  the  smell  of  fried  oysters,  and  of  the 
racket  of  the  omnibuses  and  carriages  past  the  house,  on  that 
day  not  two  months  past,  when  she  had  worn  the  chilly, 
misty  phenomenon  of  which  her  companion  spoke ;  she  did 
not  think  at  all  about  George,  or  about  anything  but  the  ex- 
ternals of  that  dull  occasion.  Felix  did  not  understand 
exactly,  but  he  thought  it  was  best  to  talk  about  something 
else  at  onc6,  and  the  cloud  passed  away  at  the  first  word. 

All  this  took  time — the  rocks,  and  the  climbing,  and  the 
resting ;  Dorla  gave  a  little  scream  of  horror  when  she  saw 
the  hour.  "  Two  o'clock  !  why,  dinner  is  over  and  done  in 
every  house  in  Milford  !  '  Whatever '  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  How  material!  "  exclaimed  Felix.  "  Are  you  so  hungry 
then?  For  my  part  I  had  not  thought  of  dinner." 

"  But  you  ought  to  have  thought  of  .  it,  and  so  ought  I ; 
poor  dear  old  Mrs.  Rothermel  !  she  will  be  so  unhappy." 

All  this  while  Dorla  was  hurrying  up  the  bank,  quite  out 
of  breath ;  but  had  to  stop  and  rest  and  acknowledge  she 
ras  tired.  She  looked  very  pretty,  standing  with  her  hand 
on  her  heart,  her  hat  fallen  back,  her  cheeks  flushed,  and 
wanting  for  breath. 

"  See  how  you  have  tired  yourself,  and  how  absurd  it  is," 
laid  her  companion.  "  Probably  no  one  has  thought  about 
is  since  we've  been  away." 

He  took  off  his  straw  hat,  and  leaning  with  one  hand 


90  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

against  a  tree,  fanned  her  with  it  with  the  other.  Hfi 
cheeks  weie  little  flushed  too  with  the  exercise,  but  he  dU 
not  look  tired. 

They  left  **  the  woods  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern,"  and 
seated  once  more  in  the  little  carriage,  drove  towards  home. 
It  was  a  very  short  drive  after  all,  if  one  chose  to  make  it 
so.  When  they  reached  the  gate  of  the  farm  house,  Dorla 
said  with  candor,  "  Dinner  is  never  a  very  state  affair  with  us, 
and  less  than  ever  to-day,  I  suppose,  owing  to  the  tea-party. 
But  you  will  find  it  better  than  no  dinner  at  all,  or  a  cold 
one  at  the  hotel ;  so  please  come  in  and  take  it  with  me, 
the  others  wi1!  all  have  eaten  theirs." 

That  was  a  strong  temptation ;  and  she  presented  to  his 
fancy  a  tete-a-tete  broiled  chicken,  some  fresh  vegetables  and 
a  glass  of  claret;  possibly  some  whipped-cream  and  fruit. 
But  he  had  a  good  deal  of  tact,  and  he  did  not  want  to  see 
her  wearied,  and  to  be  associated  in  her  thoughts  with  any- 
thing mal  a  propos  or  uncomfortable.  He  said  he  dared  not 
provoke  Harriet  any  further,  he  must  go  and  be  reconciled 
to  her,  or  she  would  forbid  his  coming  to  the  tea  that  even- 
ing. "But  you  will  take  the  pony,"  she  said,  as  he  tied 
her  to  the  post.  "  Tim  shall  go  down  and  bring  her  back. 
Please,  you  surely  would  not  walk  all  that  distance  in  the 
sun." 

He  laughed,  and  said  he  should  have  to  show  her  some 
notes  of  his  walking  tour  last  summer.  Then  lifting  his  hat 
he  said  good-bye,  and  she  watched  him  from  the  porch  as  he 
walked  rapidly  down  the  road.  O,  what  a  happy  morning ! 
She  went  singing  into  the  house  ;  she  laughed  aloud  when 
she  saw  the  gaunt  geraniums  in  their  glass  alone,  and  picked 
up  with  interest  some  roses  that  he  had  handed  her,  and  she 
had  dropped  upon  the  floor.  She  threw  her  arms  around 
her  mother-in-law  with  unusual  effusion,  and  begged  her  to 
forgive  her  for  being  so  late,  and  ate  her  little  dinner  all 
%lone,  as  if  she  enjoyed  it  thoroughly.  The  tea-party  be- 
came an  interest  and  an  excitement;  she  entered  into  thi 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  $\ 

preparations  for  it  keenly,  arranging  the  flowers  and  the 
candles  on  the  tables  with  her  own  hands,  and  giving  the 
tervant  many  close  instructions  on  the  matter  of  her  duty. 
She  forgot  all  about  poor  George,  and  nearly  ran  over  him 
in  the  hall,  when  she  was  coming  down  stairs  with  her  arms 
full  of  table  linen.  He  was  delighted  to  see  she  was  no 
longer  a  martyr,  and  tried  to  help  her  in  every  way  she  would 
permit. 

"  Tell  me  about  this  Varian,"  he  said,  standing  by  her 
uiid  holding  the  steps,  while  she  put  some  ferns  over  a  pic- 
ture. 

t(  Oh,  he's  delightful !  "  she  said,  "  so  clever,  so  handsome 
and  so — so — easy  to  get  acquainted  with  ; "  for  she  began 
to  think  she  had  only  been  with  him  three  hours  and  a  half> 
and  yet  he  seemed  more  of  a  friend  to  her  than  people  she 
had  known  all  her  life,  therefore  it  must  be  his  characteris- 
tic that  he  was  «asy  to  get  acquainted  with. 

"  A  good  deal   of  a  swell,  though,  I've  no  doubt,"  said 
George,  for  he  felt  provincial,  in  prospect  of  meeting  this* 
tra veiled  creature. 

'•  On  the  contrary,"  said  Dorla,  "  he  is  most  unpretend- 
ing ;  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  thinking  of  himself  at  all,  but 
of  the  person  to  whom  he  talks,  and  he  doesn't  say  anything 
about  tlie  places  he  has  been  to — that  tiresome  way!  Oh, I 
know  you  will  like  him  ;  I  never  liked  anybody  half  so  well 
in  all  my  life  before  in  such  a  little  time." 

George  shook  his  head ;  he  did  not  feel  her  confidence. 
Then  she  went  to  her  room  and  tried  to  sleep  a  little  while ; 
but  it  was  not  much  use  to  try  to  sleep  ;  she  was  in  a  daz- 
zling gay  dream  whether  she  slept  or  waked.  When  she  was 
dressed  and  ready  to  go  down  stairs,  George  came  to  the 
door  and  knocked.  He  had  been  afraid  to  disturb  her  be- 
tore,  and  he  was  net  yet  dressed  himself.  He  told  her  she 
'ooked  lovely,  and  asked  her  to  give  him  a  kiss  ;  she  gave  it 
to  him  absent-mindedly  and  amiably,  thinking,  meanwhile, 
whether  the  hall  w*uld  be  light  onough  with  the  lamp,  or 


92  A  PERFECT  ADON1& 

whether  she  had  better  not  have  candles  too.  George  wai 
not  dissatisfied,  and  went  in  to  make  his  toilet  in  great  con- 
tent of  spirit.  Dorla  went  to  her  mother-in-law's  room, 
with  some  lace  in  her  hand.  That  dear  old  lady  was  nervous 
about  her  appearance ;  she  knew  the  tea  was  nice,  but  she 
was  not  so  sure  about  herself. 

"Now  you  look  just  as  I  want  you  to!"  cried  Dorla 
caressingly.  "  I  am  so  glad  !  Wait  one  moment ;  you  must 
wear  this  lace  to  please  me.  Your  cap  is  quite  perfect,  pray 
believe  me." 

She  had  had  a  handsome  black  silk  dress  made  in  honor 
of  George's  wedding  (though  she  did  not  go  to  it),  and  that, 
and  the  fine  lace,  and  the  pretty  cap,  made  her  sweet  old 
face  quite  picturesque.  Still  she  was  nervous,  and  that  dis- 
turbed Dorla  a  little.  She  hoped  George  would  not  be  ill 
at  ease,  It  was  so  underbred  to  be  so.  In  a  little  while  he 
called  her  up-stairs  again,  to  tie  his  cravat  »for  him,  and  to 
tell  him  if  he  were  "  all  right."  She  felt  a  little  contempt 
•for  him,  for  she  knew  he  was  afraid  of  the  criticism  of  "  that 
Varian  ; "  and  she  gave  him  the  kiss  he  asked  for  rather  less 
cheerfully  than  at  first. 

"  Now,  I  do  beg,"  she  said,  a  little  less  gently  than  usual, 
"  I  do  beg  you  won't  be  worried  about  things.  Everything 
is  well  arranged,  and  will  be  nice.  Leave  it  all  to  me,  and  try 
to  act  as  if  you  were  in  somebody  else's  house." 

Easy  advice  to  give,  but  very  hard  to  put  in  practice  ;  and 
poor  George  wandered  about  the  rooms  with  a  troubled  face, 
every  few  moments  coming  back  to  Dorla  to  tell  her  of  his 
conviction  that  the  dining-room  would  not  be  light  enough, 
>r  that  the  parlor  lamp  would  smoke. 

"I've  thought  of  all  that,  George,"  she  said;  "You 
needn't  be  afraid.  It  is  all  right."  This  was  her  house, 
Jhis  was  the  hour  of  her  reign.  She  felt  herself  quite  capa- 
ble of  doing  her  part  well.  It  was  an  excitement  and  a 
pleasure  %that  she  had  never  felt  before.  She  had  made  up 
^r  raind  just  how  her  guests  should  be  entertained,  just 


A  PERFECI  ADON18.  93 

what  every  one  should  do ;  and  she  did  not  feel  at  all  afraH 
of  any  of  them,  at  least,  while  they  were  in  the  house. 

There  was  nothing  more  that  she  could  possibly  do,  PO  sh- 
Bat  down  quietly  in  the  porch  to  wait  for  them.  About  half 
past  seven  o'clock,  the  guests  arrived  (they  could  not  be  said 
to  assemble,  for  they  came  in  one  great  wagon,  which  was  the 
Milford  fashion).  All  but  Mr.  Varian.  Dorla  felt  a  pang 
of  disappointment  when  amid  the  crowd  who  came  in  at 
the  same  time,  she  did  not  see  him.  But  Harriet  relieved 
her  mind. 

"  Felix  preferred  to  walk,"  she  said.  "  He  will  soon  be 
here,  no  doubt."  Then  the  ladies  all  went  up  to  Dorla's 
room,  and  Dorla  entertained  the  gentlemen  upon  the  porch. 
The  evening  was  lovely.  The  sunset  was  still  reflected  in  the 
valley  before  them,  but  the  tall  cliffs  behind  the  house 
made  it  all  in  shadow.  "  It  is  pleasanter  outside,"  said 
Dorla,  "  is  it  not  ?  "  So  they  all  stayed  outside,  where  there 
were  plenty  of  seats  about  the  grass.  Presently  the  ladies 
came  down,  and  then  she  presented  them  to  Mrs.  Rothermel, 
and  then  she  made  her  sit  down  in  the  porch,  and  kind,  dis- 
criminating Mrs.  Bishop  sat  beside  her  and  talked  to  he/, 
and  Dorla  was  free  to  walk  about  among  the  others.  George 
was  talking  to  some  one  quite  placidly,  but  she  saw  that  he 
was  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  The  Boston  young  woman, 
whose  name  was  Grayson,  was  keenly  watching  her.  The 
Davises,  who  had  never  seen  her  with  her  husband,  were  as 
curiously  wistful  as  well-bred  people  can  be.  Oliver  was 
there,  and  never  took  his  eyes  off  her  ;  she  saw  it  all.  Pres- 
ently, Harriet,  who  had  been  hovering  about  the  gate  and 
looking  down  the  road,  said  "  There's  Felix,"  and  at  the 
same  moment,  Felix  entered  upon  the  scene.  Dorla  went 
forward  a  step  or  two  in  a  natural,  bright  manner,  and  wel- 
comed him,  and  saying  quickly,  "  I  want  to  present  you  to 
Mrs.  Rothermel,"  led  him  up  to  the  porch.  That  little  cere- 
mony shortly  over,  she  said  "  George,"  and  moved  .towardi 
him.  He  came,  looking  unmistakably  ill  at  ease. 


£4  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Varian."  She  tried 
not  to  feel  that  Felix  was  criticising  him.  After  &  few 
words  she  turned  and  left  them,  and  asked  Miss  Grayson  t« 
come  and  see  some  rhododendron  that  she  Jiad  transplanted 
from  the  woods.  And  after  five  minutes,  when  they  came 
back  across  the  grass,  she  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  George 
and  Felix  apparently  on  the  best  terms,  George  quite  at 
case,  and  looking  infinitely  relieved.  t(  I  knew  he  would 
like  Liio,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Everybody  does.  Who  could 
help  it !  "  But  aloud  she  said,  "  O,  Miss  Grayson,  I  have 
done  wrong  to  bring  you  on  the  grass ;  it  is  damp  already, 
and  you  are  wearing  slippers.  We  will  keep  to  straight 
paths  in  the  future.  Let  us  take  Mr.  Davis,  and  go  and  see 
my  rabbits ;  by  that  time,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  time  for  tea." 

Harriet  and  Oliver  were  exploring  the  orchard;  all 
were  sauntering  about  as  they  felt  disposed.  When  they 
were  summoned  in  to  tea,  it  was  quite  twilight,  and  the 
bright  lights  of  the  house  were  welcome.  The  parlor  was 
really  very  pretty,  with  its  ferns  and  flowers  and  soft  wax 
Ughts.  They  passed  through  this,  into  the  dining-room. 
Every  one  was  hungry,  the  things  to  eat  delicious,  the  table 
extremely  pretty.  Dorla  was  perfectly  satisfied,  as  she  knew 
she  should  be.  Her  mother-in-law  was  fully  occupied  behind 
the  tea-things,  and  overcame  her  trepidation.  George  had 
concluded  to  take  his  wife's  advice,  apparently,  and  forgot  to 
be  anxious,  and  became  a  little  important  instead,  which 
suited  the  occasion  better.  Dorla  was  seated  between  old 
Mr.  Davis  and  Mr.  Bishop,  while  opposite  were  Felix  and  his 
friend,  Miss  Grayson.  Doria  was  so  much  prettier  than  any 
body  else  !  No  one  could  help  noticing  the  difference.  Shfe 
•vas  dressed  in  white,  with  a  broad  scarlet  sash,  and  scarlet 
geraniums  in  her  hair ;  the  very  ones  Felix  believed  that  had 
looked  so  ungainly  when  he  put  them  in  great  branches 
in  the  vase.  She  was  twice  as  lovely  as  ever  she  had  been 
last  year,  thought  poor  old-bachelory  Oliver,  and  he  could 
have  gaasted  his  teeth  if  nobody  had  been  looking,  As  it 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  95 

was,  he  was  doubly  devoted  to  Miss  Davis,  who  liked  it 
very  much  and  did  not  divine  the  cause.  In  the  melee  that 
followed  their  leaving  the  dining-room,  Felix  contrived  to 
speak  a  word  or  two  to  Mrs.  Rothermel,  but  only  a  word  <\ 
two. 

"  Collect  Mrs.  Bishop  and  Mrs.  Varian  for  me,"  she  salt?, 
"  I  want  them  to  play  whist." 

Then  she  herself  went  to  collect  Mr.  Bishop  and  Mr. 
Davis  pere,  and  George  brought  the  whist  table,  and  in  half 
an  hour  after  tea,  these  four  were  comfortably  playing  their 
beloved  game.  The  younger  people  were  scattered  about  the 
parlor  and  hall ;  Miss  Grayson  and  Felix  were  on  the  porch. 
Bye  and  bye  they  had  some  music.  Miss  Grayson  came  in 
and  played,  and  Oliver  sang  some  songs.  Miss  Grayson 
played  quite  remarkably ;  it  made  everything  else  seem  crude. 
She  was  quite  willing  to  stay  at  the  piano,  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  giving  pleasure  and  excelling  every 
one  at  the  same  time.  Felix  was  fond  of  music  and  ho 
stayed  beside  her  for  a  long  while.  At  last  she  said  she 
had  heard  that  Mr.  E-othermel  sang  ;  she  must  insist  that  be 
sing  something  for  them.  Mrs.  Rothermel  was  called  upon  to 
play  his  accompaniments.  No ;  for  that  Mrs.  Ho  therm  el  was 
too  wise. 

"  I  play  them  so  badly,  that  it  would  spoil  the  songs  for 
every  one,  most  of  all  for  you,  Miss  Graysou.  He  shall  take 
his  guitar  and  go  out  in  the  moonlight,  troubadour-fashion, 
and  sing  to  us  from  the  porch.  Please,  George,  do  that;  it 
will  sound  so  much  better  than  if  I  play  for  you." 

And  while  George  obeyed,  she  said  with  a  little  laugh, 
'  then  we  can  listen  or  not  as  we  feel  inclined." 

It  was  very  well  done  •  the  songs  did  sound  much  better 
In  that  informal  way,  Aad  disarmed  criticism ;  besides,  he 
Bang  twice  as  well,  being  from  under  the  bright  lights,  and 
&e  sharp  eyes  of  a  roomfull  of  people.  Harriet  was  out- 
iide  with  him,  Miss  Davis  and  Mr.  Oliver  also.  Miss  Gray 
ion  and  young  Davis  sat  in  the  window.  The  moonlight 


96  <4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

was  beautiful,  and  the  air  sweet  with  flowers.  Felix  came 
across  to  the  sofa  where  Dorla  sat  alone. 

"  You  do  not  really  play  well  ?  "  he  said,  taking  a  chair 
beside  her.  • 

"  Infamously.  Sometime  I  will  play  for  you,  when  no 
one  else  is  here,  that  you  may  know  I  speak  the  truth." 

"  Then  you  do  not  care  about  my  opinion,  that  is  clear,  as 
much  as  for  these  people  to  whom  you  will  not  play  to-night." 

"  Well,  not  in  the  same  way,  certainly.  It  is  true,  I  be- 
lieve, I  would  rather  you  knew  I  played  badly,  than  Miss 
Grayson,  or  any  of  the  rest ;  in  fact,  I  don't  mind  you  know- 
ing it  at  all." 

"  That  is  a  doubtful  sort  of  confidence.  Am  I  to  be  flat- 
tered by  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  is  impossible  for  me  to  say,  for  I  have  never 
thought  about  it  before.  I  only  tell  you  the  facts  as  I  find 
them  in  my  mind." 

"  I  shall  try  to  interpret  them  favorably  to  myself.  Now 
I  am  going  to  pay  you  a  compliment." 

"  Are  you  ?     Oh,  how  pleasant.     I  am  listening." 

"  Very  well.  There  is  no  ambiguity  about  my  facts.  I 
think  you  very  clever,  and  I  find  you  play  most  skilfully 
upon  one  instrument,  if  not  upon  the  one  Miss  Grayson 
does." 

"And  what  is  it  pray?     For  I  cannot  guess." 

"  Why,  the  instrument  that  one  might  call  Society — what- 
ever part  of  it  comes  under  your  hand.  You  have  a  gift, 
believe  me.  I  have  watched  you  to-night  with  wonder. 
See  how  you  have  made  every  one  do  what  you  wanted.  I 
almost  t biink  you've  regulated  the  cards  my  mother  has  held ; 
but  of  ( ourse  I  can't  be  sure  of  that !  At  any  rate,  you've 
put  her  with  her  back  to  the  light,  which  always  makes  her 
tappy,  and  given  her  a  good  partner,  which  ensures  success. 
And  put  a  screen  behind  Mrs.  Bishop's  back,  to  relieve  her 
mind  from  fear  of  draughts.  And  given  Miss  Davis  permis- 
sion to  sit  in  the  moonlight  with  Mr.  Oliver.  And  made 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  97 

Miss  Grayson's  talent  give  everybody  pleasure,  beginning  with 
herself.  Besides  asking  your  mother-in-law  to  wind  those 
skeins  of  worsted  for  you  (which  you  didn't  want),  to  make 
her  feel  occupied  and  amused  among  the  younger  and  gayer 
people.  Yes,  Mrs.  Rothermel.  We  are  your  gamut,  ai  \ 
upon  us  you  play." 

"  Oh,"  said  Dorla,  laughing,  "  that  may  be  true.  But  if 
it  is,  I  must  tell  you  this,  that  you  are  the  only  irresponsive 
note,  so  far,  to-night.  I  have  struck  you  three  times,  three 
times  I'm  sure,  and  not  a  sound  elicited.  For,  once,  I 
wanted  you  to  urge  Miss  Grayson  to  play  again,  and  you 
did  not  take  the  hint.  And  another  time,  I  wanted  you  to 
make  Harriet  stop  teasing  Mr.  Oliver;  and  the  third,  I 
wanted  you  to  come  and  talk  to  me,  for  I  was  very  tired  of 
being  pleasant  to  people  that  I  did  not  care  about." 

And  she  gave  him  a  smile  so  bright,  so  innocent,  so  full 
of  nameless  flattery,  that  it  looked  like  the  perfection,  of  art. 
It  had  the  effect  upon  Felix  of  making  him  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  of  almost  taking  away  his  breath.  When  he  spoke 
again  it  was  in  a  lower  tone,  almost  a  smothered  one.  He 
really  did  not  understand  her  and  he  wanted  to. 

"And  how  did  you  learn  all  this,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
from  Harriet's  account  you  were  a  sort  of  nun,  and  knew 
nothing  of  the  world." 

"  Oh,  to  begin  with,  I  beg  you  will  discredit  all  Harriet's 
judgments  of  me.  You  and  I  know  her  too  well  to  make  it 
necessary  to  call  her  discrimination  her  strong  point." 

"Yes.  I  admit  she  makes  great  mistakes  in  judgment. 
But  I  am  only  talking  about  her  facts  in  this  present  case." 

"  Ah,  facts  !  They  are  such  tiresome  things.  I  feel  to- 
night as  if  there  were  no  facts  worth  noticing  besides  moon  • 
light  and  Beethoven." 

"  Then  you  do  not  mean  to  tell  me  how  you  learned  to  be 
so  clever  and  to  manage  people  so  ?  " 

"  No,  I'd  rather  you'd  think  it  a  gift  as  you  said  l>efore, 
We  don't  learn  gifts." 


98  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

'*  No,  but  we  begin  to  use  them." 

"  Well,  I  am  beginning.  To  tell  you  tLe  truth,  1his  is  my 
first  essay.  Harriet  was  right,  I  never  had  a  chance  before, 
nor  felt  the  inclination." 

"  I  wonder  whether  Harriet  was  right  about  another  thing 
she  said.  Will  you  tell  me  if  I  ask  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  promise,"  said  Dorla,  looking  frightened. 
'  Harriet  says  so  many  random  things." 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but  I  don't  think  this  was  a  random  thing 
she  said.  You  can  answer  it,  and  I'm  sure  you  will.  She 
said  you  were  a  sort  of  nun,  not  only  from  want  of  expe- 
rience of  the  world,  but  from  choice  and  deliberation.  Is  it 
so  ?  I  want  you  to  tell  me ;  really,  I  have  a  reason  for 
wanting  to  know."  The  color  came  into  her  face,  and  she 
sat  looking  down,  but  not  as  if  she  were  going  to  answer. 

"  Why  ?  Cannot  you  even  speak  of  such  things  to  me, 
Mrs.  Kothermel  ?  Am  I  such  a  sinner  ?  Well,  perhaps  I 
am,  and  perhaps  I  have  not  a  right  to  talk  about  this  to 
you ;  but  I  confess  I  have  a  longing  to  know  if  there  do  live 
women  who — well — there  is  no  use  in  talking  of  it.  I 
have  been  in  a  bad  school.  My  mother  and  Harriet  don't 
help  me  much  by  their  example.  I  know  them  to  be  good 
and  excellent  in  their  way,  but  it's  such  a  very  worldly  way  ! 
— It's  unreasonable  to  ask  people  to  govern  themselves  by 
higher  rules,  but  somehow,  you'd  like  to  know  that  there 
were  a  few  that  did  it,  just  for  the  exaltation  of  sentiment  it 
would  give  you." 

"  Felix  !  "  cried  his  mother. 

"  Mr.  Varian!"  cried  Mr.  Bishop.  "Come  here,  we 
have  agreed  to  leave  it  to  you.  If  you  know  your  adversary 
holds  a  short  suit,  are  you  justified,  etc.,  etc.,  etc." 

Felix  went  over  with  reluctant  steps  to  the  card  table, 
and  Doria  sat  silent  and  thoughtful  with  her  eyes  upon 
the  floor.  It  was  impossible  for  Felix  to  come  back  to  her, 
for  before  the  whist  difficulty  had  approached  solution,  Mr. 
Oliver  had  come  in  and  taken  his  place  beside  her,  and 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  ^ 

there  had  arisen  a  noisy  consultation  about  the  doings  of  the 
morrow,  in  which  everybody  talked  at  once;  Dorla  alone 
was  silent.  She  was  thinking,  not  about  the  picnic,  but 
about  Felix,  and  how  sorry  she  was  for  him,  and  how  she 
longed  to  talk  to  him  about  "  such  things,"  but  did  not  dare 
to  speak  !  Whatever  he  might  lack,  she  was  sure  it  was  not 
his  fault,  quite  sure.  When  next  she  heard  his  voice,  it  was 
not  gay  and  noisy  like  the  rest,  but  subdued  and  quiet,  just 
as  it  ought  to  have  been,  after  the  way  he  had  begun  to  talk 
when  he  sat  beside  her,  and  he  seemed  quite  indifferent  about 
the  picnic,  which  was  such  a  matter  of  interest  to  all  the 
rest.  Where  it  should  be,  how  it  should  be,  what  hour  they 
had  better  start.  What  a  tumult  about  nothing,  or  very 
nearly  nothing.  At  last  it  was  settled — the  hour,  the  edi- 
bles, the  conveyances ;  and  it  was  time  to  go. 

At  the  last  moment,  George  remembered  he  had  some 
business  that  could  not  be  put  off  that  would  take  him  to. 
Port  Jervis  in  the  morning.  But  Dorla  mustn't  lose  it. 
"  Dorla,  couldn't  you  drive  yourself?  Such  a  coward  as 
you've  got  to  be.  Well,  Mr.  Varian,  maybe  you  won't  mind 
driving  her  again  to-morrow.  We'll  see  that  Tim's  on  hand 
to  harness  Jenny  up." 

Mr.  Varian  would  be  very  glad  to  do  it ;  and  Miss  Gray- 
son  set  her  lips  together,  and  Miss  Davis  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders, and  said  to  Mr.  Oliver  aside,  it  was  such  bad  taste  to 
break  up  the  party  in  that  way.  It  was  against  all  Milford 
precedent  to  go  in  pony  carriages  to  picnics  or  gregarious 
undertakings.  Then  they  all  said  good-b^e  in  the  moonlight  j 
the  older  people  drove  home  in  the  big  wagon  waiting  0,t  the 
gate,  and  five  of  the  j'oungar  ones  started  off  to  walk. 


100  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 


[HE  next  morning,  the  baskets  that  the  deai  old 
mother  had  been  arranging  stood  on  the  dining- 
room  table.  Dorla  was  on  her  knees,  packing  some 
bottles  in  a  pail  of  ice,  when  she  heard  Felix  come  in  at 
the  front  door.  She  had  been  listening  for  him  without 
knowing  it,  since  breakfast-time.  She  started  up,  and  ran 
out  into  the  parlor.  "  O,  come  in,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  me 
if  this  is  not  the  best  plan.  To  let  Tim  take  these  baskets 
to  the  woods  for  us,  with  one  of  the  farm  horses,  and  then 
let  him  stay  and  build  the  fire,  and  get  some  wood  together, 
and  make  a  sort  of  table.  Picnics  are  so  tiresome  when  you 
have  to  do  everything  ^yourself ;  and  besides,  I  am  sure  all 
these  things  could  never  be  got  into  the  pony  carriage." 

Felix  thought  they  certainly  could  not,  and  that  Tim 
would  be  an  acquisition. 

"  And  then,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  think  we  had  better 
start  at  once,  and  have  no  possible  complaint  about  our 
keeping  anybody  waiting  ?  I  see  Jenny  has  '  her  things ' 
on,  as  you'd  say,  and  it  will  not  take  you  very  long  to  put 
on  yours." 

"  Oh,  not  five  minutes,"  said  she.  And  in  eight  minutes 
they  were  off,  Tim  being  charged  with  the  safe  conduct  of 
the  baskets,  and  Mrs.  Rothermel  giving  herself  up  to  the 
safe  starting  of  Tim. 

it  was  such  a  day  as  yesterday,  only  a  little  warmer ;  the 
wind  iu  your  face  was  softer  and  more  velvety;  you  did  not 
want  to  drive  ao  fast,  or  to  walk  with  such  determination, 
and  you  chose  the  shade.  Still,  it  was  not  a  hot  day ;  it 
was  just  perfect  summer  weather.  When  they  reached  the 
Conneshaugh,  there  was  no  token  of  the  picnieers.  They 
turned  off  from  the  wood  road,  into  an  unfrequented  wagon 
track  that  led  to  the  little  valley.  The  boughs  caught  Dorla'a 
veil,  and  grated  upon  the  top  of  Felix's  straw  hat.  They 
down  with  a  tbump  into  the  dry  bed  of  a  stream,  and 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  101 

Dorla  uttered  a  little  scream  and  looked  with  solicitude  at 
Jenny. 

"  How  are  the  others  to  get  through  here,"  she  said,  with 
some  anxiety. 

"  Perhaps  they  are  braver,"  answered  her  companion. 

"  However  that  may  be,  they  have  higher  carriages,  and 
that  is  more  important  than  their  moral  qualities." 

"  When  Tim  comes,  I  will  get  his  axe  and  cut  down  some 
of  the  branches ;  that  will  remedy  the  carriage  difficulty." 

"  And  take  his  spade  and  fill  up  the  bed  of  that  brook  ? 
That  will  perhaps  assist  the  courage  of  my  successors." 

"  Well  you  see  I  did  not  tell  him  to  bring  a  spade,  I  only 
advised  an  axe,  dealing  with  material  facts,  and  not  with 
moral  qualities." 

The  valley  was  cool  and  lovely.  It  was  now  past  noon, 
and  the  shadows  were  already  stretching  across  it.  It  lay,  a 
grassy  plateau,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  tall  forest  trees, 
the  hill  rising  steeply  from  it ;  a  pretty  little  stream  ran 
through  it ;  the  grass  was  green  and  smooth  as  a  pleasure 
ground.  Felix  and  Dorla  selected  the  best  spot  for  the 
table,  arranged  some  logs  for  seats,  picked  two  or  three  big 
leaves  full  of  raspberries,  washed  their  stained  hands  in  the 
cool  brook,  and  then  sat  down  to  wait. 

"  He  cometh  not,"  she  said. 

<c  She  cometh  not,"  he  said.  "  And  that  refers  to  Miss 
Grayon  let  me  say  at  once." 

"  O,  I  knew  it,"  said  Dorla.  "  You  need  not  have  said. 
[  knew  you  did  not  mean  Mrs.  Bishop." 

ft  Well  now,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  do  not  believe  they 
will  be  here  for  an  hour.  I  felt  very  much  discouraged 
when  I  left  them.  They  were  not  half  ready,  and  in  such 
confusion ;  two  or  three  people  out  of  temper  and  every- 
thing chaotic." 

"  Then  why  did  we  start  so  soon  ourselves  ?  " 

"  Why?  O,  why  I  thought  it  was  best  to  have  to  tell 
them  we  had  waited  for  them  much  longer  than  they  had 


102  I  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

done  yesterday  for  us.  And  I  thought  the  woods  were  M 
cool  and  fresh." 

"  Yes,  they  are.  And  the  drive  along  the  river  must  have 
been  warm  if  we  had  left  it  later." 

"  And  now  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  said  Felix.  "  For  I  am 
tired  of  picking  raspberries." 

"  I  know  of  a  lovely  drive,"  said  Dorla,  (<  all  through 
the  woods.  But  the  hill  is  very  steep  indeed." 

"  Let  us  try  it,"  said  Felix,  taking  Jenny  by  the  head  and 
turning  her.  In  his  heart,  he  thought  the  party  would  soon 
be  there,  and  he  thought  it  would  be  much  pleasanter  to 
escape  their  arrival  and  the  babble  and  confusion  of  the  prepa- 
rations for  the  feast.  As  they  reached  the  road  again,  they 
encountered  Tim,  and  told  him  where  to  build  the  table  and 
make  the  fire,  and  charged  him  to  be  careful  of  the  baskets, 
and  to  tell  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  when  they  came,  that 
they  had  been  waiting  for  them  for  an  hour,  and  had  gone 
off  to  take  a  drive. 

The  road  "all  through  the  woods"  was  beautiful  and 
cool.  They  gathered  laurels  and  ferns,  and  walked  up  the 
steepest  parts  of  the  hill,  ard  went  to  a  farm-house  and  got 
a  drink,  and  rested  for  t,  little  while ;  and  then  Dorla 
thought  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  the  valley.  But  Felix 
thought  it  was  so  dull  going  back  the  same  road ;  she  had 
told  him  of  one  a  little  longer  that  took  them  around  the 
hill,  and  that  brought  you  to  such  a  pretty  view.  Felix  did 
really  like  "  pretty  views  "  very  much.  It  would  only  take 
them  a  little  longer,  and  they  had  better,  he  was  certain,  go 
that  way. 

"  Only,  it  seems  a  little  as  if  we  were  shirking  the  trouble 
of  getting  the  lunch  ready  and  unpacking  the  baskets,"  said 
Dorla,  with  some  hesitation. 

"  Isn't  it  a  pity  to  care  too  much  how  things  look,  when 
ve  are  sure  our  motives  are  right  ? "  said  Felix,  gravely. 
And  then  Dorla  laughed,  and  he  took  up  the  reins  and  went 
the  way  he  wanted  to  go.  What  did  they  talk  about  alj 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  103 


long  drive  through  the  woods  and  across  the  hill  tops  ? 
Not  of  music — not  of  books — a  little  of  the  nature  before 
them,  and  a  good  deal  of  themselves.  It  really  seemed  very 
little  to  remember,  and  yet  how  well  they  felt  they  knew 
rach  other,  before  the  drive  was  over. 

"  O,  go  quickly,"  said  Dorla,  as  they  entered  the 
Conneshaugh  woods  again  and  were  turning  into  the  val- 
ley. "  I  really  am  afraid.  I  think  we  have  been  very 
rude." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Felix.  "  But  it  was  not  my  fault.  I  did 
not  want  to  go,  you  know." 

"  O,  of  course  not,"  cried  Dorla.  "  That  always  is  the 
way." 

"  I  fear  we  shall  not  be  popular,"  said  Felix,  drawing  in 
the  reins,  and  peering  through  the  trees  upon  the  picnic 
party.  "  Look  !  There  is  poor  Oliver  with  a  face  of  carna- 
tion. He  is  set  to  tend  the  fire.  The  heat  must  be  really 
apoplectic.  And  old  Bishop !  He  has  actually  had  to  take 
his  coat  off,  carrying  those  loads  of  wood." 

"Why  didn't  they  let  Tim  do  all  that,"  said  Dorla 
faintly,  looking  on  with  anxiety. 

"  Tim  is  hunting  squirrels,  I  haven't  any  doubt.  And  see  ! 
O,  Mrs.  Kothermel,  will  you  ever  dare  go  in !  Even  good 
Mrs.  Bishop's  energies  are  at  low  water  mark ;  dear  faithful 
creature,  she  is  fanning  herself  on  a  log,  and  cutting  bread 
at  intervals.  What  thick  slices !  Howl  detest  the  sight, 
She  needn't  ask  me  to  have  any." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  will." 

"  And  Harriet  is  in  a  rage  with  somebody.  O,  I  see. 
Et's  with  Mrs.  Whymple.  They've  been  making  rival 
mayonnaise,  and  Mrs.  Whymple  has  appropriated  all  the 
eggs.  That  is  hard  lines.  I  .ion't  wonder  Harriet  ia 
furious.  She  never  made  anything  that  was  good  but  may- 
mnaise,  and  it  will  be  great  trash  without  a  single  egg.  I 
shall  have  to  take  some  of  Mrs.  Whymple's." 

"  I  doubt  whether  she  will  give  you  any." 


104  A  PERFECT  ADONIS, 

"  O,  yes  she  will.     And  I  promise  you  shall  hare 
too." 

"  Then  you  will  have  to  be  attentive  to  one  of  the  two 
daughters." 

"  Well,  I  can  do  that,  if  your  salad  depends  upon  it. 
Ah,  there  is  the  best  looking  one,  helping  Davis  make  the 
coffee.  Bah!  What  stuff  it  will  be.  I  really  wish  they 
had  waited  till  I  came  for  that.  I  was  willing  to  make  the 
coffee." 

"  Then  your  face  would  have  been  vermilion,  like  Mr. 
Davis,  and  you  would  have  had  to  roll  your  coat  sleeves  up 
almost  to  the  elbow  as  he  had  to  do." 

"  But  the  coffee  would  have  been  fit  to  drink." 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that  before.  But  now  please 
let  us  go." 

They  drove  on,  into  the  opening,  with  some  misgivings  ; 
and  Dorla,  getting  out  of  the  little  carriage,  went  on  alone 
towards  the  group,  leaving  Felix  to  fasten  Jenny  to  the 
nearest  tree.  She  was  greeted  rather  coldly,  as  was  entirely 
natural.  In  fact,  no  one  was  in  the  humor  for  raillery. 
It  was  an  hour  past  dinner-time,  and  it  was  an  inferior 
dinner  for  which  they  could  hope  at  last. 

"  Can  I  do  anything,"  said  Dorla,  timidly,  going  up  to  the 
table,  as  she  took  off  her  gloves. 

"  You  might  have  done  something  if  you  had  been  here 
an  hour  ago,"  said  Harriet,  sharply,  from  over  a  fluid-com- 
pound which  refused  to  thicken.  "  But  it's  just  like  Felix, 
always  getting  out  of  the  way  of  work.  He  will  do  three 
times  as  much  as  the  thing  itself  would  be,  to  get  away  from 
any  piece  of  work  that  threatens  him.  I  know  he  went  to 
Europe  once  to  get  rid  of  selling  the  carriage  horses  that 
had  got  too  old.  He  is  the  prince  of  loafers.  I  can  tell  you 
that  if  you  haven't  found  it  out." 

"  Wait  till  he  comes  where  he  can  hear  you.  It's  a  pity  to 
was^/e  it  all  on  us,"  said  Dorla,  coldly.  "  Have  you  un- 
packed the  baskets  that  I  brought?  " 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  105 

No.  Harriet  had  not  known  that  there  were  any.  Felix 
must  be  sent  to  look  for  them  at  once.  Then  Felix  cam* 
up,  and  was  in  such  a  beautiful  good-humor,  every  one 
grew  better  tempered.  The  baskets  from  the  Rothermela 
were  full  of  treasures,  and  that  had  a  mollifying  influence. 
The  coffee  began  to  throw  out  delicious  odors,  and  there 
was  no  reason  that  dinner  should  not  be  eaten  without  fur- 
ther waiting. 

After  awhile,  "  be  advised  by  me,"  said  Felix,  sotto  voce, 
to  Mrs.  Bishop.  "  You  are  very  tired.  Come  and  sit  ovei 
there  in  Mrs.  Rothermel's  little  carriage,  and  I  will  bring 
your  lunch  to  you." 

Mrs.  Bishop  consented  and  followed  him  to  the  shady  spot, 
some  distance  removed  from  the  others,  where  the  carriage 
stood,  detached  from  the  pony,  who  was  tied  beyond.  It 
gave  her  a  very  comfortable  seat. 

"  O,  such  a  blessing  after  that  hard  log  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
"  And  now  why  can't  you  bring  some  one  else  to  share  it 
with  me.  Tell  Mrs.  Rothermel.  She  is  not  very  strong. 
She  is  looking  a  little  tired." 

"  A  happy  thought,"  said  Felix ;  and  as  he  went  across 
to  the  group  to  ask  her,  Mrs.  Bishop  smiled  amiably,  and 
wondered  whether  he  thought  she  did  not  understand. 
Soon  Dorla  came  back  with  him,  looking  bright  and  not  at 
all  tired  rtow.  She  sat  in  the  carriage  beside  Mrs.  Bishop, 
and  gave  Felix  the  rug  for  himself  on  the  grass.  Tim  hav- 
ing exhausted  the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  and  feeling  that 
dinner-time  was  near,  had  returned,  and  was  of  service  in 
bringing  them  hot  cups  of  coffee  from  the  rather  distant 
ire,  and  doing  other  tiresome  things.  Though  to  do  Felix 
justice,  he  showed  none  of  that  aversion  to  being  useful  oi 
which  his  sister  had  accused  him.  Still  it  made  it  pleas- 
anter  to  have  Tim  to  call  upon.  They  were  just  far  enough 
from  the  table  and  the  people  not  to  be  disturbed  by  their 
noise  and  chatter,  and  yet  near  enough  to  hear  faintly  the 
sound  of  laughing,  and  to  see  them  as  in  a  pantomime  I* 


106  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

made  quite  a  gay  and  pretty  scene.  The  three  in  the  pony  car- 
riage had  a  very  nice  lunch.  Felix  had  secured  all  that  was 
nicest  to  bring  over  there,  and  there  were  two  or  three  surrep- 
titious bottles  of  champagne  which  he  had  put  in  his  sister's 
basket  in  the  morning,  of  which  one  was  appropriated  to 
their  use. 

"  Is  not  this  selfish,  but  so  pleasant,"  said  Dorla  to  Mra 
Bishop,  as  they  finished  their  most  comfortable  meal. 

"Yes,  I  am  quite  ashamed  of  it,  but  I've  enjoyed  it  all 
the  same." 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  Felix,  as  he  lay  on  the  rug  upon 
the  grass  and  smoked  an  unspeakable  cigar,  "  I  don't  think 
that  I  ever  want  to  be  any  nearer  to  a  crowd  of  people  than 
I  am  at  present.  I  am  not  gregarious." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Dorla,  <£  that  was  the  first  thing  I 
ever  heard  about  you.  Your  sister  told  me  you  hated  crowds 
and  liked  the  woods,  and  I  always  remembered  it  about 
you." 

"  How  long  ago  was  that,"  asked  Felix,  "  that  Harriet 
told  you  anything  about  me  ?  " 

"  It  was  more  than  a  year  ago — a  year  ago  last  week. 
Harriet  is  very  fond  of  you  when  you  are  away." 

"  We  live  like  angels  forty  miles  apart."  And  Felix 
sighed  a  little ;  he  would  have  been  very  glad  if  Harriet 
would  have  done  exactly  as  he  wished.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  she  had  any  reason  to  be  dissatisfied.  Dorla 
sympathised  with  him  deeply,  but  did  not  want  to  hear  him 
speak  about  it  lightly,  and  in  the  presence  of  another  per 
son.  So  she  said  : 

"  What  a  pretty  picture  they  make,  over  there  by  the 
fire  —  a  real  gypsy  fire,  crooked  sticks,  black  pot  and  all ; 
and  Miss  Grayson  and  Miss  Whymple  with  their  dark  eyes 
and  red  skirts  are  just  what  they  ought  to  be.  I  neglected 
my  duty  in  wearing  a  white  cambric  dress  to-day." 

"Neglect  it  always,"  said  Felix,  looking  at  her  for  a 
moment. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  107 

"  But  at  a  picnic  one  owes  a  duty  to  the  picturesque," 
laid  Mrs.  Bishop,  following  Dorla's  eyes.  "  Look  at  Mist 
Davis  with  the  field  flowers  in  her  hat,  and  its  long  black 
velvet  ribbons.  Those  poppies  are  a  f  sweet  boon.' " 

"  At  a  distance  of  forty  rods,  they  are,"  said  Felix. 
"Nearer  they  have  a  look  of  cheap  decoration;  a  little 
suggestion  of  upholstery." 

"  That  is  the  reason  he  stays  here,  Mrs.  Bishop  !  Just  a 
question  of  effect.  If  we  wore  black  and  red,  with  muslin 
flowers,  we  should  be  studied  at  a  distance,  too.  We  must 
be  careful  in  the  matter  of  costume." 

"  I  am  careful,  always,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  looking  down 
somplacently  at  her  shabby  gray  stuff  dress.  "  Who  could 
find  any  fault  with  tliis  ?  I  have  the  voice  of  all  the  past  in 
its  favor;  it  has > passed  through  much  festivity  and  has 
never  been  accused  of  scenic  effect.  You  are  always  safe 
in  a  gray  mohair." 

Dorla  and  Felix  laughed ;  such  a  light-hearted,  merry 
laugh,  Mrs.  Bishop  quite  enjoyed  it. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Bishop,  I  like  you  better  than  anybody  in 
the  world,"  said  Dorla,  putting  some  ferns  in  the  battered 
old  l  sundown '  that  that  lady  wore. 

(t  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  she  returned,  and  though  not 
given  to  caressing,  she  passed  her  hand  affectionately  over 
Dorla's  pretty  cheek.  Dorla  felt  the  look  of  admiration 
and  the  touch  of  affection,  and  they  brightened  for  her  the 
already  bright  hour. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  making  up  the  rest  of  the 
ferns  into  a  bouquet  de  corsage  for  herself.  (l  Do  you  know, 
I  never  really  enjoyed  a  picnic  before ;  this  has  been  per- 
fect ;  the  ideal  picnic.  I  am  not  tired  or  bored,  and  I  have 
been  tirer  and  bored  before  always." 

"  What  has  made  it  different,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  looking 
s.t  her  curiously.  "  Because  there  was  champagne  ?  or  wai 
foe  coffee  hotter  than  at  other  times  ?  " 

"  tt  can't  be  the  chanrpagne  entirely,"  said  Dorla.     "  Foi 


108  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

we  had  it  last  year  more  than  once.  (O,  that  maiden-half 
I've  dropped.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Varian.)  And  the  coffee  was 
excellent  that  horrid  day  we  spent  at  Dingman's  just  before 
we  went  away.  No.  Maybe  it's  the  weather.  It  is  such  a 
perfect  day." 

"  Eighty-two  in  the  shade,  I'm  sure,  my  dear.  It  must 
be  ninety  in  the  open  road.  Keally,  it  cannot  be  the 
weather." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  Only  /  don't  think  it 
is  too  warm.  I  love  a  thorough  summer  day." 

"  And  it's  dusty  too.     You  have  forgotten  that." 

"  Dmsty !  Why,  dear  Mrs.  Bishop,  if  it  were  ever  so 
dusty  we  couldn't  feel  it  in  here.  I  am  sure  the  dew  never 
leaves  the  grass  in  this  deep  glade." 

"  Well  that  accounts  for  it.  I  didn't  know  why  I  felt  the 
heat  so  much.  Damp  heat  is  so  much  harder  to  bear  than 
dry  heat," 

"  You  are  determined  to  find  fault." 

"  And  I  am  sure  there  are  mosquitoes." 

"Mrs.  Bishop!  Now  that's  unjust;  the  last  thing  to 
accuse  poor  Milford  of.  I  don't  believe  you  could  get  one 
if  you  advertised  for  it  in  the  Milford  Herald.  It  would 
be  easier  to  get  a  bald  eagle  or  a  golden  pheasant.  I  do  like 
people  to  be  just." 

"  That  is  always  what  I  aim  to  be,  my  child,  and  I  am 
only  trying  to  make  you  see  that  this  picnic  is  not  any  better 
tlian  ordinary  picnics.  I  am  trying  to  make  you  take  the 
middle-aged  view  of  it." 

t(  But  I  am  not  middle-aged,"  said  Dorla,  plaintively, 
l<  how  can  I." 

"  That  is  true ;  and  that  is  what  I  want  to  bring  you  to. 
It  isn't  the  picnic  nor  the  day  that  is  so  delightful.  It  u 
pcu;  and  it  is  you  because  you're  young." 

"  O,  but  I  was  younger  last  year ;  and  things  were  not  so 
delightful."  Mrs.  Bishop  shrugged  her  middle-aged  should- 


A  PERFECT  ADCNI&  10§ 

ere,  and  turned  to  Felix,  who  lay  silent  on  the  grass,  smok- 
ing and  gazing  into  space. 

"  Help  us,  Mr.  Yarian,  don't  yon  see  how  far  we  are  from 
shore?" 

"  You  should  have  been  more  careful,"  he  said.  "It  ia 
easier  sometimes  to  get  out  to  sea  than  to  get  back  to  land." 

"  But  throw  me  an  oar  in  charity.  Why  is  to-day's  pic- 
nic so  much  better  than  other  day's  picnics  ?  Mrs.  Rother- 
inel  is  a  year  older — " 

"  Perhaps  that's  the  reason,"  he  said,  rather  abruptly 
"  Mrs.  Rothermel  is  just  learning  to  enjoy  herself." 

"  At  that  rate,"  cried  Mrs.  Bishop,  "  how  happy  I  should 
be." 

"  What  is  the  use,"  exclaimed  Felix,  (f  of  trying  to  ana- 
lyze one's  happiness.  Finding  out  what  it's  made  of  does'nt 
help  you  to  get  it  up  again.  You  may  be  pretty  sure  of  one 
thing — what  you  enjoy  to-day,  you  won't  enjoy  to-morrow. 
Either  it  won't  come  to  you  again,  or  you  won't  want  it  if 
it  does  come." 

"  O,  dismal !  "  cried  Dorla,  stopping  her  ears.  "  I  mean 
to  enjoy  every  day  this  summer  as  I've  enjoyed  to-day,  and 
to  think  every  picnic  nicer  than  the  one  before." 

"  May  it  be  so  !"  said  Felix,  who  seemed  to  have  a  ghost 
of  discontent  flitting  around  him  at  the  moment. 

"  It  is  really  disheartening,"  said  Dorla,  making  a  bouton- 
niere  for  him  out  of  the  tiniest  of  the  ferns  and  a  single 
wild  rose.  "I  do  not  think  you  have  enjoyed  yourself  at 
Jill.  Here  is  a  flower  for  you.  I  hope  it  will  make  you  hap- 
pier." She  tossed  the  little  spray  out  to  him,  and  it  fell 
upon  the  ground  beside  him.  He  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in 
uis  coat. 

"I  did  not  say  I  had  not  enjoyed  myself,"  he  said,  in 
rather  a  low  voice.  "  But  this  does  make  me  happier." 

He  had  almost  forgotten  Mrs.  Bishop,  but  she,  good  soul, 
_ad  not  forgotten  him.  She  quite  enjoyed  them  both.  Sh* 
'aad  l>ern  very  faithful  to  her  Bishop  for  all  the  twenty-five 


!10  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

years  that  she  had  been  married  to  him,  for  she  had  never 
seen  anybody  that  shejiked  half  so  well,  and  hadn't,  in  fact, 
had  much  temptation.  But  she  had  very  liberal  ideas,  and 
thought  that  a  pretty  young  married  woman  had  every  right 
to  her  little  romances,  if  she  found  amusement  in  them. 
She  thought  that  Felix  was  very  decidedly  in  love,  which 
circumstance  pleased  her,  for  two  reasons ;  the  first,  that  he 
was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  it  "  served  him  right."  The 
second,  that  Dorla  was  a  sweet  wild  rose,  whom  she  ap- 
proved; and  that  the  greedy  young  women  to  whom  Felix 
was  an  aspiration,  were  not  sweet  wild  roses  in  any  sense, 
and  she  was  rather  glad  to  see  them  overthrown.  She  did 
not  quite  understand  Dorla ;  but  she  was  sure  of  one  thing 
— that  Dorla  had  enjoyed  the  picnic  very  much.  Soon, 
however,  her  attention  to  the  little  play  at  which  she  was 
assisting,  was  distracted  from  the  harmless,  pretty  trifling  of 
the  talkers  beside  her :  several  others  of  the  party  ap- 
proached them.  Miss  Gray  son,  who  was  learned  in  ferns, 
was  going  up  to  the  bed  of  the  stream  in  search  of  some, 
accompanied  by  two  or  three  Davises  and  Mr.  Oliver.  They 
made  a  detour  with  the  purpose  of  breaking  up  the  party  in 
the  pony  carriage.  Mr.  Felix  got  very  quickly  off  the  grass 
as  they  approached.  Dorla  uttered  a  faint  little  sigh  as  she 
shook  the  last  of  the  ferns  off  her  lap  :  her  "  idea  of  happi- 
ness "  was  to  have  them  ^tay  away. 

"  Why,  how  quiet  you  are  over  here,"  cried  Mr.  Oliver, 
who  thought  picnics  should  be  attended  with  hilarity. 
**  You  are  having  a  stupid  time,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Yes,  "  said  Miss  Gray  son,  maliciously,  "you  all  have  a 
look  of  being  bored." 

"O  no,"  exclaimed  Dorla,  with  bright  innocence,  "  in- 
(eed  we  are  not  bored.  We  have  just  been  talking  of  it." 

"  One  needn't  be  Bacchanalian  always  to  enjoy  one's  self," 
said  young  Davis,  who  had  an  irritated  feeling  about  the 
jokfis  and  songs  and  loud  talking  that  he  had  suffered  for 
the  lant  four  hoars.  He  thought  to  be  sitting  under  coa 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  Ill 

ahady  trees,  with  just  two  people,  one  pretty,  and  one  clever, 
was  not  a  thing  for  a  man  to  complain  aboi.t.  Miss  Gray 
ion  looked  at  Dorla  and  said,  hardly : 

(f  Mr.  Rothermei  is  not  here.  Does  he  never  join  you  in 
your  excursions  ?  " 

({  O,  yes,  often,  and  likes  them  so  much." 

"  What  a  pity  he  could  not  come  to-day.  We  must  give 
him  longer  notice  next  time  we  go.  You  are  sure  it  doesn't 
bore  him  ?  " 

"  O,  quite  sure." 

"  Then,  let  us  bring  him  next  time  in  place  of  Mr. 
Varian.  For  he  looks  so  ennuyd,  it  really  spoils  my  com- 
fort." 

Dorla  laughed  lightly,  and  looked  at  him.  "  Why,  .1 
don't  think  he  does.  Mr.  Varian,  what  have  you  done  to 
be  so  much  commiserated  ?  " 

"  He  will  have  to  sing  a  negro  song,  and  burn  his  face 
scarlet  over  that  hideous  fire  before  he  can  be  considered 
to  have  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,"  said  Mr.  Davis, 
mutinously. 

"  Davis,  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  the  happy  man  you 
seem,"  said  Felix.  "  That  has  a  sound  of  discontent." 

"  O,  yes,  I  am  happy,  but  I'm  tired.  " 

And  the  audacious  young  Davis  threw  himself  down  on 
the  grass  beside  the  carriage  where  Felix  had  been  lying. 
"  Mrs.  Rothermei,  mayn't  I  stay  here  and  rest  myself  ?  " 

"  O,  yes,"  said  Dorla  rather  faintly.  "  I  think  you  would 
all  be  wiser  to  stay.  " 

"  They  are  going  for  ferns;  nothing  would  stop  them. 
They  are  nob  tired  at  all.  "  At  the  mention  of  ferns,  Dorla 
tried  to  say  something  interested  and  civil  to  Miss  Grayson, 
tfho  stood  near  her.  She  told  her  something  about  the 
ferns  that  grew  in  the  valley,  and  showed  her  one  that  she 
had  found  that  morning. 

"  But  I  want  some  aspidiwm, "  said  Miss  Grayson,  hard 
to  satiffy. 


1 12  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  O,  I  had  some  in  my  hand  not  half  an  hour  ago; "  and 
Dork  looked  about  the  bottom  of  the  carriage  to  find  it 
among  the  remnants  of  her  ferns.  (t  No,  I  am  afraid  it  is  all 
gone.  It  must  have  been  in  the  little  bunch  I  made  for  Mr. 
Varian.  Mr.  Varian,  won't  you  come  here  a  moment  ?  " 

For  he  had  strayed  off  three  or  four  steps  and  was  talking 
to  Miss  Davis.  He  came  very  quickly,  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice ;  quicker  than  husbands  and  brothers  and  persons  of 
that  sort  come; 

«  Yes,  Mrs.  Rothermel  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  let  me  have  back  that  little 
bouquet  I  made  for  you.  There's  a  scrap  of  aspidium  in 
it,  that  I  want  to  give  Miss  Grayson :  we  can't  find  any 
more."  He  took  it  out  very  quickly  and  handed  it  to  her ; 
twenty-seven,  and  man  of  the  world  as  he  was,  he  neverthe- 
less blushed  a  blush  that  there  was  no  mistaking,  and  every 
one  saw  it  but  Dorla,  who,  intent  upon  conciliating  Miss 
Grayson,  thought  of  nothing  but  the  scrap  of  fern  which  she 
was  disengaging  from  the  others.  Felix  was  in  a  rage,  and 
meant  never  to  notice  her  again  ;  hardened  creature,  what  did 
this  mean  ?  The  distracting  coquetry  of  her  words  and  man- 
ner when  she  gave  it  to  him  ;  (t  Here  is  a  flower  for  you,  I 
hope  it  will  make  you  happier."  And  this  cool  matter-of 
fact  way  of  asking  for  it  back  again  before  these  people, 
and  making  such  a  fool  of  him,  how  should  it  ever  be  for 
given  ? 

If  he  had  been  self-possessed  enough  to  do  it,  he  would 
have  said  something  very  stinging.  But  he  was,  for  just 
once  in  his  smooth  life,  utterly  confounded,  and  could  not 
command  his  voice. 

"  Why,  that  is  what  the  children  call  being  an  Indian 
giver !"  cried  Mrs.  Bishop,  who  was  very  much  perplexed. 

"  O,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Dorla,  smoothing  out  the  fern, 
w  and  it  oakes  the  children  very  angry,  doesn't  it  ?  But  1 
tnew  Mr.  Varian's  strong  point  was  his  temper,  and  that  I 
*as  very  safe.  There,  Miss  Grayson,  now  if  you  press  that 


A  PBRFEOT  ADONIS. 

as  soon  as  you  get  home,  I  think  you'll  have  a  very  decent 
specimen." 

"  O,  thank  you  very  much,"  said  the  bitterly-flavored 
Grayson.  "  But  I'm  really  in  doubt  whether  I  ought  to 
take  it.  Mr.  Varian  values  it  very  much,  I'm  sure." 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  managed  to  say,  confusedly,  and  with 
that  general  and  humiliating  confession  of  defeat,  he  turned 
away. 

"  0,  that  need  not  trouble  you,"  said  Dorla,  innocently. 
"  I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  know  one  fern  from  another ;  it's  prob- 
able he  took  it  for  a  scrap  of  parsley,  and  I  don't  believe  that 
he  could  tell  the  difference  between  clematis  and  wild-rose." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Davis,  "  then  we  will  give  him  a  les- 
son. Mr.  Varian,  you  shall  go  up  these  rocks  with  us,  and 
learn  all  the  clumsy  names  Miss  G-rayson  has  to  teach." 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Felix,  going  to  Miss  Grayson'a 
side ;  he  was  very  glad  of  an  excuse  to  get  away.  His  rage 
towards  Dorla  expressed  itself  in  this  alacrity.  He  could 
not  believe  she  was  not  the  most  profound,  the  most  unprin- 
cipled of  coquettes,  and  yet  he  could  not  divine  any  cause  he 
had  given  her,  in  their  brief  and  golden  friendship,  to  affront 
him  in  this  way.  He  went  off  with  Miss  Grayson  on  the 
fern  hunt,  but  he  made  rather  an  absent-minded  and  unprofit- 
able companion.  He  was  continually  going  over  in  hia 
mind  the  possible  causes  that  could  have  made  Dorla  treat 
him  so ;  he  laughed  bitterly  at  himself  for  being  annoyed 
about  it,  and  voted  it  served  him  right,  at  his  age,  for  be- 
lieving in  any  one's  sincerity.  He  assured  himself  the  only 
thing  that  made  him  feel  so  sore  about  it,  was  the  know- 
ledge that  other  people  had  witnessed  his  discomfiture. 
And  then  he  pushed  it  away  and  became  ardently  interested 
in  Miss  Grayson  and  the  ferns,  and  then  he  went  back  to  it 
ugain,  and  grew  absent-minded  and  random  in  his  talk. 

Miss  Grayson  was  a  little  sharp  and  shrewish  when  she 
found  this  out ;  she  and  Miss  Davis  had  both  burned  thei/ 
faces  quite  red  in  the  sun,  and  they  looked  a  little  draggled 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

and  untidy  wi';h  their  scrambling  in  the  woods,  and  theu 
domestic  service  in  the  matter  of  the  feast.  Also  they  were 
a  little  tired  and  cross,  and  Mr.  Oliver  was  a  frightful  bore 
to  have  as  a  companion  all  day  long ;  it  was  no  wonder  the 
climbing  up  the  bed  of  the  brook  was  a  failure  as  far  as 
pleasure  was  concerned.  All  were  glad  in  the  recesses 
of  their  hearts  when  it  was  proposed  to  go  back  to  the  pic- 
nic ground.  Felix,  as  they  drew  near  to  the  glade  again, 
grew  very  silent,  and  filled  his  mind  with  conjectures  about 
how  he  should  find  Dorla  occupied,  how  she  would  receive 
him,  how  he  should  best  show  her  his  contemptuous  indiffer- 
ence. He  had  been  away  an  hour  and  a  quarter;  he  had 
left  her  with  young  Davis  stretched  at  her  feet  as  her  com- 
panion, and  he  was  disposed  to  think  Davis  was  inclined  to 
be  devoted.  How  should  he  find  her  ?  Talking  to  Davis 
with  the  same  sweetness  and  innocence  (save  the  mark)  with 
which  she  had  favored  him  ?  Perhaps  she  had  given  Davis 
a  flower  for  his  button-hole ;  perhaps  she  had  said,  <f  I  hope 
it  will  make  you  happier ; "  perhaps  she  had  smiled  when 
she  turned  her  face  to  him,  with  that  flushing,  illuminating 
smile  ;  perhaps  Davis  liked  it ;  ha  !  ha  !  it  was  very  likely 
he  did.  Davis  was  young.  She  would  make  a  much  better 
affair  of  it  than  with  him,  an  old  experienced  hand.  She 
would  find  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  playing  so  capricious 
a  game  with  a  man  who  had  had  so  much  experience  in 
married  flirtations  OD  two  continents.  "  What  was  the  silly 
creature  thinking  of? "  he  said  to  himself  many  times, 
gnawing  his  mustache  gloomily  as  he  helped  Miss  Grayson 
down  the  rocks. 

All  at  once  they  found  themselves  at  the  bottom  of  the 
descent  and  in  the  open  glade,  and  exactly  opposite  the 
pony-carriage  party  they  had  left.  Felix  felt  his  heart  give 
a  jump,  when  he  found  himself  standing  again  beside  her, 
and  when  he  saw  Davis  still  stretched  upon  the  rug.  They 
had  nade  their  sortie  from  the  wood  rather  silently,  he  *nd 
Mi'-s  Grayson  being  in  advance,  and  not  having  much  to 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

lay,  and  for  an  instant  no  one  noticed  them  or  looked  their 
way.  Mrs.  Bishop  was  taking  a  furtive  nap;  Davis  was 
lying  on  his  elbows  and  picking  a  tuft  of  grass  to  pieces, 
and  Dorla  was  leaning  on  her  hand,  silent,  and  thoughtful, 
and  rather  weary.  When  she  heard  the  sound  of  Miss 
Grayson's  step,  she  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  flushing, 
illuminating,  irradiating — there  could  not  be  too  mary 
pretty  names  for  the  smile  that  came  across  her  face  as  she 
saw  Felix.  He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant ;  while  Davis 
got  up  and  shook  himself,  and  began  to  talk  to  Miss  Giay- 
Bon. 

"  Why  did  you  go  away  ? "  asked  Dorla,  sotto  voce. 
r<  O,  I  have  had  such  a  dreary  time.  I  have  gone  through 
two  boat-races,  and  base-ball  enough  for  a  life-time." 

"  It  surely  must  be  time  to  go,"  said  Felix,  in  an  eager 
whisper,  "  and  then  we  shall  be  rid  of  all  the  tiresome  crea- 
tures." 

"O,  yes,  go  and  start  the  others,  please."  And  Felix 
found  himself  half-way  across  the  valley  "to  start  the 
others,  please"  before  a  bewildered  feeling  of  shame  and 
surprise  came  over  him,  to  mix  with  the  other  bewilder- 
ment of  relief  and  pleasure.  Yes,  certainly  it  was  the  soft- 
est thing  he  had  ever  done  in  his  life,  and  he  had  to  remind 
himself  that  he  was  twenty-seven,  and  not  seventeen. 
What !  Was  he  in  his  senses,  and  yet  so  twisted  about  by 
this — well,  yes — this  very  pretty  woman?  Of  course  she 
was  that ;  but  he  had  seen  so  many  pretty  women !  What 
was  the  difference?  And  he  had  never  been  taken  off 
his  feet  before ;  never  at  least  since  he  was  out  of  college 
This  was  absolutely  ludicrous,  but  it  was  rather  pleasant 
Let  him  enjoy  it  while  it  lasted,  it  would  soon  be  stupid 
like  the  rest  of  life.  So  he  went  to  do  her  bidding,  and 
souse  the  others  to  the  necessity  of  going  home.  That  waa 
not  difficult  to  do ;  every  one  was  tired,  and  longed  to  be 
away.  The  baskets  were  packed  and  in  the  wagons.  There 
vas  nothing  to  do  but  to  embark.  Tim  was  sent  to  put  Jenny 


116  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

to  the  pony-carriage,  and  Felix  busied  himself  in  pacify- 
ing Harriet,  and  being  a  little  ostentatiously  useful.  By 
the  time  he  went  back  again  to  the  pony-carriage,  however, 
a  new  trouble  awaited  him.  The  pony  was  all  ready,  with 
her  head  turned  towards  home ;  Dorla  was  in  the  carriage ; 
Davis  was  rather  officiously  tightening  straps  and  looking  at 
the  harness. 

"  I  believe  they  want  you  in  the  wagon  going  back,"  he 
said.  "  I  was  proposing  to  take  your  place  and  drive  Mrs. 
Rothermel,  if  you're  agreed." 

"  That  shall  be  precisely  as  Mrs.  Rothermel  decides,"  re- 
turned Felix,  stiffly,  feeling  furiously  angry.  Dorla  looked 
anxious  and  embarrassed. 

"  Mr.  Davis  is  so  kind,"  she  faltered.  "  But  I  really 
don't  believe — that  is — I  have  some  doubt — don't  you  think 
they  would  like  you  better  than  Mr.  Yarian,  in  the 
wagon  ?  "  Then  brightening  up,  "  they  have  persecuted 
Mr.  Varian  so  to-day,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  right  to 
trust  him  there  without  protection." 

Felix,  reassured,  said  with  great  urbanity,  "I  really 
should  be  afraid  to  risk  myself  among  them,"  and  without 
further  parley  stepped  into  the  carriage. 

It  was  now  young  Davis'  turn  to  be  disgusted,  but  that 
was  not  a  very  serious  matter.  Dorla  attempted  to  say 
something  amiable  to  him  as  they  drove  away,  but  Felix 
did  not  give  her  time. 

"  What  an  escape ! "  she  whispered,  as  they  left  him 
standing  sulkily  behind. 

"  These  boys  are  utter  nuisances,"  he  ejaculated,  loftily. 

"  How  patriarchal !  "  cried  Dorla.  {( Why  he  must  be 
three — four  years  your  junior !  Were  you  an  utter  nuis- 
ance that  length  of  time  ago  ?  " 

"  How  come  you  to  know  so  accurately  the  age  of  Master 
Davis?  Has  he  been  confidential ?" 

"  O,  yes,  to  the  extremest  limit.  I  even  know  what 
ilay  his  birthday  comes,  and  what  his  father's  promised  him 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  117 


when  he's  twenty-five.  He's  to  be  taken  into  the  bi 
and  have — well,  I  suppose  he  didn't  mean  me  to  repeat  it, 
but  he  will  be  quite  an  important  young  man  if  his  father 
doesn't  change  his  mind." 

"  A  most  desirable  parti,  no  doubt.  Now,  if  he  had  told 
you  this  a  year  ago — " 

"  O,  he  did  tell  me  this  a  year  ago,  and  has  told  me  again 
to-day." 

"  He  is  a  most  ingenuous  youth.  I  wonder  the  disclosure 
didn't  affect  your  fate." 

"  O,  it  is  too  late  now,  and  last  summer,  he  was,  to  tell 
the  truth,  a  year  younger  than  he  is  at  present." 

"I  can  hardly  believe  it  possible.  It  seems  to  me  he 
never  could  have  been  younger  than  he  is  to-day." 

"  That's  because  you  are  a  patriarch." 

"Well,  I  might  be  something  worse.  I  might  be  middle- 
aged  and  cynical  like  Mrs.  Bishop ;  or  young  and  gay,  and 
heartless  like  Mrs.  Rothermel." 

"  Oh !  that  results,  does  it  ?  No  heart  in  youth,  a  bad 
heart  in  middle  age,  and  all  the  virtues  at  twenty-seven  ?  " 

"  Twenty-seven  !  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  twenty- 
seven.  Has  Harriet  told  you  on  what  day  my  birthday 
comes?" 

And  so  on ;  an  hour  or  two  of  this  sort  of  talk,  full  of  in- 
terest and  pleasure  to  those  who  talked.  Who  cannot  re- 
member such  words ;  weariness  to  all  but  those  to  whom 
they  were  joy ;  such  joy  as  comes  but  once.  Who  has  not 
treasured  up,  through  dull  and  dusty  years,  such  conversa- 
tions, and  never  realized  how  little  worth  they  were,  till  in 
some  rare  moment  of  confidence,  he,  or  much  more  probably 
she,  has  set  them  in  the  light,  before  some  one  who  could 
sympathise,  if  anybody  could.  But  no  one  can. 

It  was  now  five  o'clock ;  and  Felix  persuaded  his  compan- 
ion it  was  just  the  hour  for  a  little  drive ;  so  they  turned 
tbrup  tly,  when  they  reached  the  river  road,  and  went  bowling 
along  towards  Dingman's  in  the  cool  shade  of  the  tall  cliffs. 


118  A.  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

while  the  heavy  wagons  lumbered  along  in  the  opposite  diU 
rection,  with  their  loads  of  sun-burned,  weary  and  unamiable 
revellers.  Many  sharp  eyes  followed  them  as  they  turned 
off,  and  some  sharp  words. 

"  There  goes  your  brother,"  cried  Miss  Whymple  td 
llarriet. 

"Where — how?"  said  Harriet  saddling  her  glasses  on 
her  nose,  and  peering  down  the  road. 

"O,  with  Mrs.  Rothermel,  of  course." 

"  O,"  said  Harriet  dropping  off  her  glasses,  "  it's  all  right 
then.  He  could  not  be  in  better  hands.  She'll  teach  him 
to  say  his  prayers  a  little,  and  flirt  a  great  deal." 

"  There's  nothing  like  your  pious  women  for  good  times 
after  they  are  married,"  said  Miss  Whymple,  who  wasn't 
much  at  repartee,  but  who  could  always  throw  a  good  solid 
lump  of  dirt.  "  I  remember  how  you  used  to  talk  about  her 
virtues  last  summer  before  she  came ;  we  expected  to  see 
something  quite  uncommon.  I'm  afraid  you've  changed  your 
mind  since  then ;  you  gave  us  to  understand  she  wouldn't 
flirt  before  she  was  married,  much  less  after  it." 

4<  As  to  that,"  said  Harriet,  "maybe  I  didn't  take  into 
consideration  that  all  the  men  would  be  running  after  her. 
That  makes  such  an  amount  of  difference  you  see." 

Miss  Whymple  reddened ;  she  naturally  didn't  like  to 
hear  that  all  the  men  were  running  in  a  straight  line  away 
from  her;  she  wore  her  hair  short  on  the  forehead,  and  she 
had  her  clothes  made  by  the  same  French  woman  who  made 
Mrs.  Rothermel's.  She  did  not  feel  that  the  men  were  war- 
ranted in  what  they  did.  Some  people  in  the  other  end  of 
the  wagon,  out  of  bearing  of  Harriet,  said  other  things,  that 
hit  both  Mrs.  Rothermel  and  her  admirer;  who  quite  un- 
conscious of  the  venom  they  had  bred,  sped  on  beside  the 
river,  on  which  lay  golden  and  rosy  tints  of  the  evening  sky 
The  air  was  full  of  pleasant  odors  ;  now  they  passed  a  bloom- 
ing field  of  buckwheat  that  smelled  like  honey ;  now  they 
drove  along  a  road,  bordered  on  each  side  by  raspberry 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  119 

bushes  on  which  the  berries  hung,  filling  the  air  with  their 
peculiar  odor.  There  came  sometimes  across  the  fields  a 
wind  that  was  direct  from  the  new  cut  hay ;  sometimes  the 
woody  earthy  smell  from  the  deep  glades  they  passed,  would 
seem  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  flowers.  Then  everything 
was  so  still ;  only  at  intervals  the  lumbering  of  a  hay  wagon, 
or  the  call  of  men  coming  from  their  work,  or  the  whet- 
ting of  a  scythe,  or  the  tinkle  of  a  cow-bell,  or  the  twitter  of 
a  bird.  And  the  sky  was  so  delicately  blue,  and  the  clouds 
so  pearly.  And  all  life  was  so  fair. 

When  they  came  home,  and  Dorla  said  good-bye  to  Felix, 
she  was  neither  tired,  nor  yet  impatient  that  the  pleasure 
was  at  an  end ;  everything  was  so  bright  and  perfect,  she 
did  not  feel  troubled  that  this  day  was  over.  All  days  were 
to  be  like  this,  for  some  reason  that  she  had  not  yet  defined. 
Life  in  the  farm-house,  however,  was  a  trifle  prosy  ;  George 
had  not  yet  got  home,  and  two  or  three  elderly  aunts  had 
come  from  some  miles  off,  to  tea.  It  was  not  easy  to  enter- 
tain them ;  and  Dorla  found  it  more  difficult  than  usual  to 
forget  their  dulness  and  their  many  differences.  It  was  with 
a  great  sense  of  a  burden  removed,  that  she  saw  them  depart 
packed  into  their  stout  old  Rockaway,  and  driven  by  a 
"  bound  boy  "  aged  twelve,  of  whom  she  had  heard  the  his- 
tory and  the  characteristics  from  the  lips  of  each  one  of  the 
three  aunts.  He  was  considered  a  great  advance  upon  Tim, 
though  he  had  his  frailties  ;  and  "  Sister  Amelia,"  was  criti- 
cised as  very  weak  and  lax  for  tolerating  Tim.  It  seemed 
so  strange  to  Dorla  that  people  should  be  so  much  interested 
in  bound  boys,  and  sucli  dull  things.  She  had  a  good  de«j 
of  imagination,  but  she  could  not  throw  herself  to-night  in*o 
the  lives  of  these  withered,  narrowed  souls.  She  was  gla4, 
very  glad  that  they  had  gone  away,  and  the  best  that  she 
could  do  was  not  to  think  al  out  them,  and  the  easiest  too- 

It  was  a  soft,  brooding  twilight ,  she  wan Jered  down  the 
path,  and  sat  under  the  trees  beside  the  gate.  An  hour 
feassed ;  she  still  sat  dreaming  aimless  dreams,  watching  the 


120  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

moon  come  up,  when  a  sudden  whirr  of  wheels,  and  a  sud 
den  pause  at  the  gate,  drew  an  exclamation  from  her. 

"  Mr.  Varian ! "  she  exclaimed,  going  quickly  to  the 
gate.  By  this  time  he  was  out  of  the  wagon  and  stood  be- 
si  de  her.  "  And  this  is  the  famous  horse.  When  did  he 
arrive  ?  " 

"  I  found  him  when  I  got  back  this  afternoon.  And  I 
couldn't  resist  a  little  dash  down  the  road,  to  make  sure  he 
had  not  forgotten  how  to  go." 

61  And  this  river  road  is  the  best  of  all  the  roads,"  said 
Dorla.  "  O,  what  a  beauty !  What  a  dainty  head.  Mr. 
Varian,  Jenny  is  rather  provincial,  isn't  she.  And  I  thought 
her  so  perfect  when  George  bought  her  for  me  only  two 
months  ago ! " 

"Don't  you  think,  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  said  Felix,  "that 
you  might  take  a  turn  down  the  road  ?  It  is  such  a  fine 
night.  I  would  bring  you  back  in  ten  minutes  if  you  said 
so.  And  I  am  really  proud  of  my  horse.  I  want  you  to 
see  how  he  can  go." 

"  O,  it  would  be  so  nice ;  but  don't  you  think  it's  very 
late  ?  And  besides  how  could  I  ever  get  into  that  high 
thing." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  can't  trust  my  driving.     Is  that  it  ?  " 

"  O,  no,"  she  cried,  "  it's  odd,  but  I  never  am  afraid  with 
you.  I  never  think  about  Jenny's  vices  when  once  I'm  in 
the  carriage  and  you  have  the  reins.  No ;  it  isn't  that.  I 
only  think  I  oughtn't  to  be  going  all  the  time ;  and  it  i*s 
really  late." 

11  Only  a  few  minutes  after  nine.  And  the  moonlight  is 
%o  perfect." 

"  Yes,  1  know  it,"  said  Dorla,  wistfully. 

"  Just  ten  minutes,"  urged  Felix.  t(  A  mile  or  two  down 
the  road  and  back." 

"  It  will  take  me  so  long  to  get  ready,"  said  Dorla. 

"  Pull  the  hoo/1  of  that  cloak  over  you*-  head.  Jt  isn't 
oold,"  said  Felix. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  121 

"  I  must  tell  Mrs.  Rothermel  then,"  said  Dorla,  fastening 
her  cloak  about  her  throat,  a  little  undecided. 

"  Why  take  the  time  for  that  ?  You  will  be  back  before 
she  realizes  you  have  started." 

.  So  she  let  herself  be  persuaded,  and  went  out  to  the  gate 
and  stood  beside  the  wagon.  She  pulled  the  hood  of  her 
soft  white  cloak  up  over  her  head,  and  climbed  into  the 
wagon  rather  clumsily,  on  two  accounts,  that  she  had  so 
much  drapery  about  her,  and  that  she  had  a  faint  misgiving 
that  the  horse  would  bound  away  with  her,  before  her  com- 
panion could  get  in.  But  that  did  not  occur.  Felix  got 
into  the  seat  beside  her,  almost  while  she  thought  of  it,  and 
hey  were  away,  almost  while  she  thought  of  it,  and  out  of 
sight  of  the  farm  house  and  its  surroundings.  The  horse 
went  like  a  bird ;  the  wagon  was  of  a  perfect  make,  noise- 
less and  smooth  running ;  it  was  like  swimming  through  the 
moonlight,  and  Dorla  held  her  breath.  The  air  was  so 
beautiful,  the^hush  over  the  calm  silvered  landscape  so  pene- 
trating ;  sometimes  they  passed  through  warm  currents  of  air 
in  the  ocean  of  cool  blue  ether — never  had  motion  seemed  to 
her  so  delicious,  so  exhilarating.  They  did  not  talk  ;  that 
would  have  broken  the  charm  ;  besides  Felix  had  to  drive, 
which  was  something,  with  such  a  horse  as  that  in  his  hand. 
Not  that  Dorla  dreamed  of  fear.  Only  she  panted  a  little 
bit,  when  they  drew  up,  three  or  four  miles  from  home. 

"  You  are  not  frightened  ?  "  said  Felix. 

«  O,  no  !  "  she  said. 

"  Then  we  can  go  a  little  further,  can't  we  ?  " 

And  they  were  off  again,  whizzing  through  the  air. 
When  they  paused  again,  Dorla  drew  a  deep  breath  and  said, 
u  Now  I  think  we  must  go  back." 

Then  Felix  said,  (( Here  is  a  good  little  piece  of  road 
^et  me  try  that,  and  then  I  promise  I  will  take  you  back." 

The  '  good  little  piece  of  road '  was  about  two  miles  long, 
ind  ended  in  a  dark  and  gloomy  stretch  of  forest  trees,  with 
«  bridge,  and  a  little  stream  flowing  under  it  with  a  faint 


122  *  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

monotonous  sound.  The  air  felt  cold  and  c  amp,  and  invol- 
untarily Dorla  gave  a  little  shudder.  Felix  who  was  driving 
Blower  now,  said,  "  You  are  not  cold?  Can't  you  put  yom 
cloak  around  your  neck  ?  " 

"  O,  no,  it  is  not  that.  But  it  is  so  gloomy  here.  I  wish 
we  hadn't  come  so  far." 

"  Don't  be  frightened ;  we  will  turn  here."  And  in  a 
moment,  they  were  turned  homeward,  and  were  out  into  the 
moonlight.  O,  the  glory  of  the  moonlight  as  they  came 
out  of  the  woods.  It  seemed  almost  the  light  of  day.  And 
Felix  said  "  What  a  night  it  is  !  "  and  they  drove  slower  as 
they  went  towards  home.  Slower,  that  is,  when  it  was  pos- 
sible to  keep  the  gay  horse  in.  Felix  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  made  the  minutes  longer  then.  When  they  were  a 
mile  or  two  out  of  the  wood,  and  going  up  a  little  hill  at  a 
slower  pace,  two  gentlemen  in  a  trotting  wagon  passed 
them,  and  took  off  their  hats. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  Dorla. 

"  Oliver  and  the  infant  Davis,"  answered  Felix,  not  much 
pleased  at  the  encounter.  It  did  not  trouble  him  very  much 
though.  He  knew  that  before  breakfast  eveiy  one  in  Mil- 
ford  would  know  that  he  had  been  met  with  Mrs.  Rothermel 
miles  away  from  home.  He  knew  that  Oliver  was  growing 
a  little  spiteful,  and  that  Davis  had  only  the  discretion  of  a 
boy.  But  all  these  things  were  in  his  line,  and  he  forgot 
they  were  not  in  his  companion's.  Still  he  let  the  horse  out 
a  little  more,  and  consented  to  reach  home  a  few  minutes 
sooner,  on  account  of  the  occurrence.  Dorla  did  not  give 
it  a  second  thought.  To  what  did  she  give  her  thoughts  ? 
That  would  be  difficult  to  say.  Principally  to  the  beauty  of 
the  night,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole  earth,  and  her  own 
exceeding  pleasure  in  its  pleasant  things.  A  sort  of  rapture 
to  which  she  could  not  give  a  name.  Felix  was  silent  too ; 
not  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  drew  up  the  little  hill  and 
upproached  the  gate. 

"  Are  you  not  sorry  we  are  'aere  ?  "  said  Felix,  rather  low. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  123 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  It  was  beautiful.  I  never  liked  any- 
thing so  much." 

At  the  gate  stood  George,  looking  a  little  anxious ;  and 
that  broke  rather  rudely  in  upon  the  dream. 

"  We  didn't  know  what  had  become  of  you,"  he  said, 
lifting  Dorla  out. 

"My  dear!  you  gave  us  such  a  fright,"  cried  poor  old 
Mrs.  Rothermei,  flying  down  the  path.  (She  had  boen 
searching  the  cistern  with  a  lantern  and  a  pole,  all  by  her- 
self, dear  lady,  not  to  impart  her  fears  to  George.) 

"  Why,  I'm  very  sorry,"  Dorla  said — "  but  I  haven't  been 
away  ten  minutes," 

"Why,  I've  been  in  three  quarters  of  an  hour,"  said 
George.  "  But  I  won't  scold,  seeing  I've  been  married  such 
a  little  while." 

Felix  winced,  but  said  something  in  an  easy,  apologetic 
way.  And  Dorla,  while  she  kissed  her  mother-in-] aw, 
turned  and  said,  "  O,  but  such  a  horse  !  Nobody  should  be 
blamed  for  forgetting  time  and  space.  George  if  you  could 
see  him  go — " 

i  "Get  in  and  let  me  drive  you  a  little  way  down  the 
road,  won't  you,  Mr.  Rothermel  ? "  And  Felix  leaned 
forward  quite  urgently. 

44  Thank  you,"  said  George — "  but  I'm  pretty  tired,  and 
to  tell  the  truth,  I'm  pretty  hungry  too.  We  were  all  in 
Buch  a  commotion  about  my  wife,  that  I  haven't  had  my  sup- 
per, though  I've  been  home  as  I  said,  three  quarters  of  an 
hour." 

"  You  haven't  had  your  supper !  O,  George,  I  am  so 
sorry ! " 

And  Dorla  started  forward,  looking  pained.  Felix  felt 
much  more  irritated  than  the  man  who  hadn't  had  his  sup- 
per. That  was  natural.  George  hadn't  had  his  supper, 
out  he  had  permanently  a  beautiful  woman  for  his  wife, 
who  seemed  to  Felix  at  this  moment,  the  very  crown  and 
flower  of  life.  As  he  drove  away,  after  a  few  more  word* 


124  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

of  unmeaning  courtesy,  he  glanced  back  and  saw  her  stand 
ing  at  the  gate,  so  tall  she  seemed  to  dwarf  the  man  beside 
Her,  her  light  dress  falling  with  grace ;  her  fair  face  sur 
rounded  by  the  soft,  white  hood  of  her  long  cloak.  Her 
eyes  looked  so  dark  and  soft  in  the  clear,  stainless  moon 
light.  Felix  felt  a  fire  in  his  heart,  as  he  thought  that 
she  belonged  to  that  insignificant,  crude  man. 

"  Hardly  fit  to  be  her  bootmaker,  or  to  groom  her  horse," 
he  muttered  bitterly,  as  he  drove  on  along  the  road,  which 
the  moonlight  still  flooded,  but  which  looked  very  common- 
place and  tiresome  to  him  now.  He  could  only  see  George 
Rothermel  sitting  at  his  homely  supper-table  with  his  wife 
beside  him — perhaps  waiting  on  him,  perhaps  smiling  as 
she  talked  to  him.  No!  He  knew  she  was  not  smiling, 
except  faintly  and  absently.  He  knew  her  eyes  were  wan- 
dering away  from  him  with  her  thoughts.  She  was  thinking 
— he  was  sure — she  was  thinking  of  the  green  and  shady  pic- 
nic ground — of  the  soft  sunset  sky  under  which  they  had 
driven  home — of  the  flood  of  moonlight  with  which  the 
heavens  were  overflowed  when  they  two  sped  through  it 
silent  and  in  harmony. 


| HE  early  morning  was  cloudy — at  nine  o'clock  it 
was  raining  hard.  "I  will  read  some  French," 
thought  Dorla ;  as  she  sat  down  by  the  parlor 
window.  But  she  could  not  fix  her  mind  upon  it.  "  Either 
I'm  getting  tired  of  sentiment,  or  I'm  getting  rusty  in  my 
French,"  she  said,  as  she  shut  up  the  book.  "  I'll  sew  a 
little,  and  then  I'll  write  some  letters." 

She  tried  the  sewing,  and  she  tried  the  letters,  and  then 
she  leaned  idly  against  the  window,  and  looked  out.  The 
rain  was  coming  down  in  great  sheets  of  spray,  the  trees 
were  bowing  and  flapping  in  the  gale,  it  looked  like  an 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  125 

Autumn  storm.  A  few  drenched  and  unhappy  looking 
chickens  scampered  across  the  yard;  the  dog  was  sitting 
very  close  up  to  the  door  courting  the  shelter  of  the  house , 
little  streams  of  water  were  running  down  the  path.  It  was 
rather  dismal,  and  yet  it  was  one  of  Dorla's  traditions  that 
a  rainy  day  had  its  delights.  Somehow,  to-day,  she  did  not 
find  them  readily.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  so  chilly ; 
it  was  really  cold.  She  looked  at  the  thermometer  ;  it  was 
62°.  No  wonder  she  could  not  read  or  write.  She  would 
light  the  fire.  So,  with  the  assistance  of  the  maidj  sWe 
built  a  bright,  gay  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  began  to  think 
that  she  was  happier. 

"  There  ma'am,"  said  the  girl,  "  see  how  you've  torn  the 
trimming  off  your  dress.  You  should  always  let  me  bring 
the  sticks  in,  when  you  have  your  good  clothes  on." 

"  O,  they're  not  my  good  clothes,"  returned  her  mistress, 
a  little  mortified  to  think  how  useless  she  was,  and  how 
inappropriate  all  her  clothes  were  to  a  farm-house.  Her 
dress  was  a  delicate  grey ;  she  wore  pretty  embroidery  at 
the  sleeves  and  throat,  and  a  double  string  of  silver  beads 
around  her  neck,  and  a  lovely,  large  pink  rose,  and  geranium 
leaves  fastened  at  her  breast ;  it  was  all  simple  enough,  but 
no  wonder  it  looked  dainty  to  the  drudge  of  a  maid,  who 
had  helped  her  build  the  fire.  <f  Now,  Ann,  that  is  a  lovely 
fire.  Isn't  it  worth  the  trouble  ?  " 

Ann  thought  fires  in  mid-summer  were  flying  in  the  face 
of  Providence,  but  only  said  "if  people  thought  so,"  and 
went  her  worky  way. 

Presently  Dorla  heard  the  gate  open,  and  she  started  up. 
This  was  beyond  hope !  Somebody  coming  to  amuse  her  in 
the  storm.  She  almost  knew  before  she  reached  the  window 
who  it  was,  and  gave  a  little  cry  of  pleasure  and  welcome  as 
she  saw  Felix,  with  his  umbrella  bent  all  ways,  coming  up 
^he  path.  He  saw  her,  and  she  ran  to  open  the  door,  standing 
radiant  with  warmth  and  welcome  as  he  came  in  from  the 
cc  Id  storm.  Even  in  the  confusion  of  taking  off  his  wet 


126  A  PERFEOT  AD01T18. 

ooat  and  putting  down  his  umbrella,  he  found  opportunity 
to  say,  he  had  come  to  bring  a  note  from  Harriet,  which  she 
had  represented  as  of  the  last  importance. 

"  O,  how  wrong  of  her  to  send  you  out  in  such  a  storm  I 
A 11  the  same  I'm  very  glad  she  did,  if  it  doesn't  kill  you, 
I  mean  to  say,  of  course." 

"  O,  I'm  fnae  sic  tender  plant.'  I  shall  not  die  of  this  I 
think." 

"  And  you  walked  all  the  way.  That  must  have  been 
what  I  had  the  fire  made  for !  You  shall  sit  there  in  that 
warm  chair  and  dry  your  feet." 

It  was  a  good  while  before  either  of  them  remembered  the 
note.  Felix  had  established  himself  as  an  accredited  mes- 
senger and  then  had  forgotten  all  about  his  message.  And 
Dorla  hadn't  given  it  a  thought.  Bye  and  bye  he  remem- 
bered the  note  and  gave  it  to  her.  If  she  had  only  known 
its  history ! 

Felix,  having  seen  George  Rotherinel  pass,  as  he  smoked 
his  cigar  on  the  hotel  piazza,  had  been  seized  with  compas- 
sion for  the  lonely  Dorla,  and  had  gone  to  Harriet  and  urged 
her  to  send  down  for  her  to  come  and  spend  the  day  with 
them.  (George  had  a  valise  in  the  buggy  beside  him  and 
was  driven  by  the  faithful  Tim.)  Harriet  jeered  at  the  idea 
of  sending  for  any  one  to  come  out  in  such  a  storm.  Felix 
opposed  her  by  saying  it  would  at  least  be  showing  an  at- 
tention, and  would  do  no  harm.  Harriet  said  she  was 
under  no  obligations  to  Dorla  and  it  could  do  no  good. 
Felix  did  not  give  up,  and  Harriet  at  last  burst  out  with  : 

"  Say  the  truth,  and  that  you  want  to  take  the  letter 
down  yourself.  You  do  not  dare  to  go  without  something 
in  your  hand.  I  am  to  be  catspaw,  am  I  ?  " 

"Yes,  you  are  to  be  catspaw,"  he  said  with  coolness, 
knocking  the  ashes  off  his  cigar.  "  Don't  keep  me  waiting. 
Come." 

"  Felix,  you're  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  and  I'm  ashamed 
of  you,"  she  cried  angrily,  drawing  the  portfolio  out  of 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

her  trunk  with  a  twitch  that  sent  half  the  papers  flying ; 
**  a  man  like  you  not  to  know  his  value — it's  degrad- 
ing." 

"  I  know  it  is,  but  don't  stop  to  think  about  it  now." 

And  Harriet  dashed  off  the  note,  burning  with  rage 
'.gainst  her  brother  for  having  dared  to  fancy  any  one  whom 
she  had  not  authorized  and  suggested. 

"  There'll  be  trouble  about  this  before  you  are  through," 
she  said  tossing  the  note  across  the  table  to  him.  "  I  wash 
my  hands  of  it  altogether. 

"  Thank  you.  That  is  just  exactly  what  I  want  ^ou  to 
do ;  and  if  I  persuade  Mrs.  Rothermel  to  come  back  with  me 
this  morning,  or  this  afternoon,  I  shall  trust  to  your  treat- 
ing her  with  every  consideration." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Harriet,  hotly. 

"  O,  you  will  think  better  of  it,"  said  Felix,  sweetly,  as  he 
went  out  from  the  door.  This  little  encounter  had  put 
him  out  of  temper.  Harriet  always  had  the  effect  of  doing 
that,  whether  she  said  much  or  little.  He  felt  a  good  deal 
ashamed  of  himself  as  he  went  floundering  through  the  mud 
and  rain  the  long  mile  and  a  half  down  to  the  Rothermels, 
and  he  was  very  glad  that  he  met  nobody.  It  took  all 
Dorla's  sweetness  and  joy  at  seeing  him  to  restore  him  to 
tranquillity.  It  was  full  ten  minutes  before  he  realized  that 
he  was  glad  that  he  had  come.  It  was  while  Dorla  was 
reading  the  note  that  he  came  to  this  distinct  conclusion. 
As  he  sat  warming  himself  by  the  ruddy  blaze  upon  the 
hearth,  and  glanced  around  the  pretty  room,  he  contrasted 
it  -vith  the  dull  parlor  of  the  hotel,  with  the  women  chat- 
'/ering  over  worsted  work,  yawning  over  novels,  or  tinkling 
rneaninglessly  on  the  piano ;  the  chilly  piazza  to  which  he 
would  have  been  driven,  or  the  cheerless  barroom  with  its 
black  stove  which  would  have  been  his  last  resort.  There 
vaa  Dorla,  like  a  young  queen,  in  her  gray  dress,  and  her 
rose,  and  her  silver  beads,  sitting  opposite  him,  reading 
the  note  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  there  was  a  long 


128  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

idle  happy  da,y  before  him.  Yes,  he  was  very  glad  he  had 
come.  He  could  not  have  done  a  better  thing. 

"  How  absurd  Harriet  is,"  said  Dorla,  laughing,  "  she 
could  not  have  thought  I  would  go  out  on  such  a  day  as 
this." 

"  She  did  not  know  how  absurd  you  might  be  under  the 
influence  of  such  a  storm  perhaps.  You  know  you  have 
said  you  were  very  sensitive  to  the  effect  of  weather." 

"  Have  I  ?  Well  then  maybe  I  should  have  gone  into  a 
melancholy,  if  you  had  not  come.  Certainly  I  was  feeling 
very  dismal." 

"  Curious,  we  never  know  how  near  we  are  to  danger. 
We  can't  tell  what  Harriet  has  saved  you  from.  That  is, 
if  you  don't  refuse  her  invitation." 

"  O,  think  of  it !  shall  I  walk  back  with  you  at  once  ?  Or 
is  it  best  to  wait  an  hour  or  two  ?  " 

"  Let  us  wait  an  hour  or  two  if  you  think  best,"  said 
Felix,  sinking  back  in  his  wide  chair  with  an  expression  of 
perfect  satisfaction.  Dorla  laughed  a  little,  and  went  across 
the  room  to  get  her  work-basket. 

"  How  shall  I  amuse  you,"  she  said,  sitting  down  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fire. 

"I  can't  think,"  he  answered;  "at  the  hotel,  I  should 
have  had  the  happiness  of  a  game  of  euchre  with  Miss 
Davis ;  or  the  choice  of  reading  aloud  to  Miss  Whymple. 
And  perhaps  Miss  Grayson  would  have  played  *for  me  ;  who 
knows." 

"  Ah,  what  a  pity.  I  can't  make  up  for  any  of  those  lost 
delights.  I  can't  play  euchre,  and  you  wouldn't  want  me  to 
murder  Mendelsohn  for  you.  And  as  to  being  read  aloud 
to,  I  don't  feel  in  the  least  like  it.  But  I'd  try  to  be  patient, 
if  it  would  make  you  any  happier.  Reading  aloud  always 
seems  to  me  like  people  in  a  story  book.  I  never  had  a 
gentleman  read  aloud  to  me  yet.  I  suppose  Miss  Whym- 
ple has,  and  she  woukl  know  what  to  say  at  the  sentimental 
part*  T  shouldn't" 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  129 

Felix  laughed  at  this,  and  said  it  was  a  pity  she  felt  so 
ibout  it,  for  he  read  particularly  well. 

(t  Yes,  I'm  sorry  about  it,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

ff  Just  think — some  sweet  thing  out  of  Tennyson,  or  a  bit 
of  Browning." 

"  O,  please,  I  am  sorry  to  be  so  sordid,  but  indeed  I  could 
not  listen." 

"  Well,  then,  how  am  I  to  be  amused.  You  won't  play 
for  me,  though  you  said  the  other  night  you  would,  and  you 
won't  listen  to  me  and  admire  my  reading?" 

tf  O,  but  you  don't  know  how  many  other  things  I  can  do. 
You  don't  know  how  well  I  draw.  You  shall  look  at  my 
illuminations  and  admire  them,  and  that  will  take  up  some 
of  your  long  morning." 

"  You  illuminate  ?  So  do  I,  admirably.  How  much  we 
can  say  to  please  each  other.  Mayn't  I  look  for  the  port- 
folio?" 

After  the  portfolio  was  found  and  examined  they  did  find 
a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other.  (Not  that  there  would 
have  been  any  lack  of  that,  if  the  drawing  had  not  come  up.) 
Felix  pushed  a  table  up  to  the  window,  and  took  a  piece  of 
drawing  card  and  Dorla's  colors,  and  said  he  should  sur- 
prise her  by  his  skill.  But  they  talked  a  great  deal  and 
drew  very  little.  Dorla  kept  her  embroidery  in  her  hand, 
but  leaned  over  the  table  and  watched  the  progress  of  the 
design  Felix  was  sketching  out. 

"What  shall  I  put  in  here,"  he  said,  "  on  this  border  ? 
The  ground  ought  to  be  blue." 

"  Put  in  anemones,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  smile  which 
Felix  did  not  understand. 

"  Anemones  ?  I've  forgotten  what  the  stupid  things  are 
like.  (Not  that  I  ever  knew.") 

"  Let  me  see,  can't  I  find  a  plate  in  some  botany,"  and 
ihe  went  off  to  look  among  some  books,  but  could  not  find 
one. 

"  Why  anemones  ?  "  asked  Felix.     "  Won't  a  daisy  do  as 


130  4  PERFECT  AD01TI8. 

well,  or  mignonette.     You  see  I  know  a  little  more  about 
them." 

Dorla  shook  her  head.  "  If  you  are  doing  that  for  me, 
you  must  put  in  anemones.  Here,  I  will  make  you  one  in 
outline." 

"  I  wonder  what  there  is  about  anemones,"  he  said  study- 
ing the  little  sketch  she  made,  and  then  putting  it  in  hia 
pocket.  "  I  shall  look  up  all  about  them,  as  soon  as  ever  I 
go  home." 

"  Ask  Miss  Gray  son ;  she  can  no  doubt  tell  you  their  his- 
tory, in  botany,  in  mythology,  in  poetry,  and  probably  let 
you  read  her  some  '  sweet  thing  '  about  them  in  blank  verse." 

"  Clever  Miss  Grayson  !  If  it  rains  to-morrow,  I  shall 
stay  at  the  hotel,  I  think." 

"  In  the  meantime,  don't  make  that  blue  so  fonce.  See, 
here  is  a  blue  I  like.  Don't  you  ?  " 

She  brought  him  from  between  the  leaves  of  another  port- 
folio, a  shabbier  and  more  used  looking  one,  a  little  picture, 
which  contained  the  blue  she  meant  to  have  him  copy.  It 
was  the  top  of  a  hill,  of  buckwheat  in  white  flower  ;  over  it 
played  several  yellow  butterflies,  and  this  against  a  blue 
sky.  There  were  only  three  colors  in  it,  the  white  of  the 
buckwheat  flowers,  the  yellow,  and  the  blue. 

"  Do-n't  you  like  it,"  she  said,  leaning  lovingly  over  it 
"  How  sweet  the  sky  was  that  day,  and  how  pure  and 
ardent  was  the  light.  I  never  shall  forget  it." 

"  Then  you  saw  it  ?  "  said  Felix  holding  it  in  his  hand, 
and  looking  carefully  at  it,  for  there  was  a  great  deal  in  it, 
lo  colder  eyes  than  his. 

<{  Yes,  I  saw  it.  But  I  cannot  tell  what  it  was  I  saw,  nor 
why  it  gave  rne  such  a  sense  of  pleasure.  That  is  where  my 
intelligence  stops." 

"  Tell  me  about  this  picture,"  said  Felix.  "  How  long 
lince  it  was  done  ?  " 

"  A  month  ago,  in  June." 

"And  do  you  know  how  true  it  is  and  how  unusual? 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS,  131 

What  has  any  one  said  about  it  ?  Has  an)  one  else  looked 
lit  it?" 

(<  Not  a  soul.     Not  a  human  eye." 

"  Well,  may  I  have  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  a  hundred  more  if  you  wanted  them." 

"  This  is  mine  then,  remember." 

'*  Yours,  forever." 

Of  course  Felix  stayed  to  dinner.  Old  Mrs.  Kothermel 
was  a  little  frightened  and  put  on  her  best  cap,  and  got  out 
the  "  good  china."  But  Felix  had  the  beautiful  gift  of  being 
at  ease  and  putting  others  so  wherever  he  might  be.  And 
in  a  very  little  while  she  was  quite  comfortable  about  the 
fricassee  and  the  succotash,  which  had  laid  heavy  on  her  soul, 
and  was  thinking  how  well  it  was  that  her  dear  child  had 
some  one  to  come  in  and  amuse  her  on  this  dreary  day. 
The  table  looked  very  pretty,  with  Dorla's  pretty  silver,  and 
the  old  fashioned  India  china  and  some  flowers  ; — and  every 
thing  that  came  from  the  Rothermel  kitchen  was  perfection 
in  its  way.  Felix  thought  of  the  cold  scraps  of  meat  and 
vegetables  hustled  before  the  waiting  crowd  at  the  hotel 
table,  and  was  again  thankful  that  he  had  made  his  sister 
write  the  note. 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  he  said,  addressing  the  elder  lady, 
"  what  shall  you  say,  if  your  daughter  consents  to  leave  you 
this  afternoon,  if  it  should  clear,  to  stay  till  to-morrow  with 
my  sister  at  the  hotel  ?  Harriet  has  sent  me  down  for  that. 
She  thought  as  Mr.  Rothermel  was  away,  and  it  was  such 
ji  dismal  storm,  she  might  be  persuaded  to  come  down." 

*'O,  I  could  not  think  of  leaving  mother  alone,"  said 
Oorla,  while  at  the  same  time  said  the  d^ar  old  lady  : 

"  It  will  be  so  nice  for  her.  Yes,  of  course  she  must  go 
rith  you  if  it  clears  off."  A  little  remonstrance  necessarily, 
and  warm  protestation  on  both  sides. 

"•  Well,  don't  let  us  quarrel  about  it,  dear,  mother,  till  w« 
know  whether  it  is  going  to  clear  or  not,"  said  Dorla,  laugh* 
ing,  as  they  left  the  table. 


132  4  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

After  a  little  while,  the  clouds  began  to  break  away  k 
ever  so  small  a  degree.  "  There  is  hope,"  said  Felix,  going 
out  upon  the  porch.  Then  it  began  to  darken  again,  and  a 
pouring  shower  came  on.  But  soon  that  passed,  and  the 
clouds  began  to  lighten  again,  and  more  than  one  great  break 
of  blue  appeared  in  them.  And  about  three  o'clock  the  sun 
shot  great  rays  of  gold  across  the  mottled  sky  and  dripping 
earth.  They  opened  doors  and  windows,  for  suddenly  the 
room  seemed  dull  and  dark  and  close,  and  the  fire  was  an 
impertinence. 

"  Now  it  is  settled,"  said  Felix.  •"  How  soon  shall  we 
start,  and  is  Jenny  to  be  got  ready  ?  " 

"  Why  cannot  I  walk  with  you  ?  That  is,  if  I  conclude 
to  go.  And  Tim  can  come  down  for  me  in  the  morning." 

"  Why  not  let  rne  bring  you  back  with  my  horse,  when 
Harriet  is  willing  to  let  you  go.  I  believe  there  is  some- 
thing on  hand  for  to-morrow  morning.  Do  not  promise  to  be 
.back  at  any  time  precisely." 

While  Dorla  went  up  to  dress,  Felix  set  himself  to  finish 
the  border  of  anemones.  But  that  was  too  much  like  work, 
and  after  a  while  he  laid  it  down,  and  hunted  through  her  favor- 
ite books,  which  lay  about  the  room,  and  wrote  his  name  on 
a  page  of  one  of  them,  and  the  date  ;  which  she  found  a  year 
after,  on  a  very  different  day  from  this,  and  read  with  very 
different  eyes.  When  they  started  from  the  house,  it  was 
nearly  five  o'clock  ;  the  air  was  clear  and  fresh  and  almost 
cold.  The  sun  was  shining  brilliantly  in  one  half  of  the 
heavens,  and  in  the  other,  there  were  still  masses  of  black 
clouds.  The  foliage  was  fresh  and  shining  from  the  rain, 
and  the  earth  was  black  with  the  water  that  had  not  yet 
Bunk  away.  It  was  an  inspiriting  kind  of  afternoon :  the 
wind  that  was  driving  the  black  troops  of  cloud  away  was 
in  their  faces  as  they  walked  along.  The  walks  and  d.  ives 
of  the  last  few-  days  had  all  been  delightful  to  Dorla>  but 
this  seemed  the  most  beautiful  of  all. 


A  PERFEVT  ADONI8.  133 

"Think  of  the  people  shut  up  in  close  dull  rooms  this 
beautiful  afternoon,"  she  said. 

"  If  they  can't  be  out,  I  pity  them — but  if  they  don't 
choose  to  be,  I  hold  them  in  contempt,"  he  answered,  send 
ing  a  stone  after  a  bird  which  of  course  he  did  not  hit.  "  I 
should  like  to  be  a  boy,  fifteen  my  next  birth-day,  with  a 
fishing-rod  upon  my  shoulders,  and  a  pocketful  of  worms  for 
baii." 

"  How  about  Latin  grammar  when  the  holiday  was  over, 
and  six  hours  in  a  hot  school-room  out  of  the  twenty- 
four  ?  " 

t(  Latin  grammar  to  the — squirrels.  I  should  be  Tim ; 
nothing  above  that  you  may  be  sure. " 

"  Well,  then,  you  would  be  a  bound  boy." 

"  Bound  to  Mrs.  Rothermel." 

u  Oh,  yes.  How  kind  I  would  be  to  you.  I  would  tear;h 
you  to  spell  on  winter  evenings  by  the  kitchen  fire." 

"  '  While  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets 
And  the  boys  are  shaping  bows.'  " 

"  Yes  :  how  pleasant  it  all  sounds,  but  I'm  afraid  six  even- 
bgs  in  the  week  of  it  would  be  a  trifle  dull.  Country  life 
has  two  sides  I  suppose." 

"  Seriously,  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  said  Felix,  abruptly,  "  how 
10  you  think  you  are  going  to  endure  the  winter  here. 
I've  been  wondering  whether  you  have  ever  thought  about  it." 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  thinking,"  exclaimed  Dorla,  with 
a  sudden  half-smothered  sigh.  "  I  have  my  books.  I  like 
to  be  alone  better  than  people  generally  do.  Oh,  I  shall  get 
on  very  well.  Don't  be  sorry  for  me.  I've  made  my  ar- 
rangements to  be  extremely  happy." 

"  But  you  will  come  to  the  city,  perhaps,  for  a  month  or 
two  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  have  not  been  very  happy 
in  the  city.  My  life  there  was  very  dulL" 


134  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  But  it  need  not  be  so  always.  You  know  a  married 
woman  can  have  many  more  liberties  than  a  young  girl  can ; 
though  I  know  that  is  not  your  way.  You  are  very  much 
afraid  of  having  a  good  time." 

<f  I  am  afraid  you  don't  know  me.     This  for  instance." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  call  this  a  good  time !  " 

"  A  good  time!  Why,  it  is  the  outside  limit  of  enjo*  - 
inent.  I  never  wanted  to  do  anything  so  much  in  my  life. 
I  was  so  afraid  Mrs.  Rothermel  wouldn't  make  me  come,  I 
could  hardly  breathe.  And  if  it  hadn't  cleared  away,  I  am 
sure  I  should  have  cried." 

That  certainly  ought  to  have  satisfied  Felix.  They  did 
not  go  to  the  hotel  by  the  straightest,  shortest  way,  but  they 
went  down  to  the  Bluff,  and  down  a  steep,  muddy,  unneces- 
sary path  to  the  river.  They  waited  a  little  while  to  see  if 
they  could  get  a  boat  and  have  a  row ;  but  they  could  not 
get  it  and  so  went  up  the  steep  path  again,  and  rested  after 
their  scramble,  on  the  Bluff,  well  wrapped  up,  with  the  wind 
blowing  freshly  off  the  river,  and  the  lowering  sun  shining 
strangely  on  the  parti-colored  landscape.  There  were  beau- 
tiful cloud  effects  and  all  that,  and  they  talked  a  little  artist 
jargon,  but  laughed  about  it,  like  two  honest  amateurs. 

"  Really,  we  must  go,"  said  Dorla,  starting  up,  as  the 
town  clock  struck  six  in  the  faint  distance.  "  It  is  tea-time 
at  the  hotel,  and  Harriet  will  be  much  displeased  if  we  keep 
her  at  the  table." 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  steps,  the  people  were  just 
collecting  ready  to  go  in.  Felix  began  to  have  some  misgiv- 
ings as  to  their  reception.  If  Harriet  dared  to  be  uncivil, 
he  would  make  her  sorry.  (But  that  would  do  j  ustice  more 
good  than  Dorla.)  He  caught  sight  of  her  in  the  hall,  and 
eaving  Dorla  for  a  moment,  hurried  in  to  meet  her  and  give 
her  a  word  of  warning. 

"  Here's  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  and 
I  hope  you'll  make  it  as  pleasant  for  her  as  you  can." 

"  O,  I'll  leave  that  for  yon,"  -eturned   Harriet,  with  8 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  135 

miff  of  high  contempt  as  she  put  her  oye-glasses  on  her  nose 
to  look  about  for  the  unwelcome  visitor. 

"  Well,  then,  you'll  put  an  end  to  the  fete." 

"The  fete!     What  fete?" 

"  At  the  Rothermels  ;  but  mind  you  don't  say  an  f  tT  ing 
about  it." 

"  O,  nonsense,  I  don't  believe  it  will  come  to  any  thing. 
I've  heard  of  such  plans  before." 

But  she  was  a  littte  mollified  and  a  little  interested,  and 
she  also  enjoyed  having  Felix  obliged  to  ask  a  favor  of  her. 

"  Mind  you  don't  say  any  thing  about  it,"  he  whispered, 
as  they  went  towards  the  visitor.  And  Harriet,  though  a 
little  less  demonstrative  than  usual,  Dorla  thought,  gave  her 
no  occasion  to  doubt  her  welcome.  They  went  in  to  tea  to- 
gether, Dorla  as  bright  as  a  rose  from  her  long  walk,  and  her 
happy  day,  and  looking  a  greater  contrast  then  ever  to  the 
ennuye  crowd. 

"  What  a  dull  day  it  has  been !  "  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  who 
was  their  vis-a-vis  at  the  table. 

"  A  dull  day  !  O,  I  don't  think  so.  And  the  afternoon 
has  been  so  splendid." 

"  Too  wet  to  go  out,  and  a  little  chilly  in  the  house,"  she 
said,  pulling  a  knit  shawl  a  trifle  closer  round  her  shoulders. 

Dorla  had  thrown  off  her  wrappings,  and  looked  warm 
and  radiant. 

"  One  never  has  any  appetite  in  such  weather,"  said  Miss 
Davis,  pushing  away  the  pallid  slices  of  cold  lamb  on  the 
little  oval  delf  dish  in  front  of  her. 

"  O,  let  me  have  it,  if  you  don't  want  it,  won't  you  ?  "  said 
Uorla.  "  For  I  am  so  hungry." 

"This  meal  is  always  insupportable,"  said  Harriet. 
"  Dorla,  I  really  wonder  that  you  came  before  you  had  your 
iea.» 

"  O,  for  a  cup  of  tea  that  was  not  all  tepid  water  and 
sugar,"  sighed  Mrs.  Whymple,  from  the  other  end  of  the 
table. 


136  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

"  And  toast  that  did  not  taste  of  smoke,"  said  her  daugh- 
ter fretfully. 

"  Really  this  cake  was  made  a  week  aga  to-day.  I  rec- 
ognize three  of  those  cookies.  They  have  been  on  the  table 
every  night  since  my  arrival." 

This  was  a  wail  of  Master  Davia,  who  was  still  of  an  age 
to  be  interested  in  cake,  as  Felix  whispered  to  Dorla,  while 
he  put  sugar  in  her  tea. 

"  I  certainly  think  we  ought  to  speak  to  the  proprietors," 
said  Mrs.  Varian.  "  The  biscuits  are  always  yellow  with 
soda  or  some  such  horrid  preparation." 

"  O,  my  dear  mother,"  cried  Felix,  "  you  seriously  affect 
my  spirits.  I  am  sure  everything  tasted  very  good  to  me. 
I  began  my  tea  at  peace  with  all  mankind ;  and  now  I  am 
throughly  embittered.  Truly,  I  do  not  see  how  I  am  to  sat- 
isfy my  appetite.  There  is  nothing  left  uncondemned  upon 
the  table.  And  yet  everybody  is  eating." 

"  Everybody  must  eat,"  said  Davis,  stoutly,  helping  him- 
self to  a  large  piece  of  cake. 

"  I  should  die  without  my  cup  of  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Whyin- 
ple,  sending  her  cup  away  to  be  refilled,  while  her  daughter 
took  the  opportunity  of  ordering  more  toast,  and  Mrs. 
Varian  having  broken  open  five  biscuits  and  found  two  of  a 
complexion  that  suited  her,  ate  them  to  a  running  accompa- 
liment  of  complaint. 

"  I  suppose  it's  because  I  am  so  hungry,  but  everything 
wems  nice  to  me,"  said  Dorla,  meekly,  a  little  ashamed  of 
eating  so  much  of  things  that  were  so  disapproved. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  like -it  all,"  cried  Miss  Whymple 
spitefully.  "  I  think  you  must  be  feeling  very  happy." 

"  Oh,  I  am.     No  doubt  that  is  one  reason." 

"  Maybe  we  should  all  be  happier  if  Mrs.  Rothermel 
were  ofbener  at  the  table,"  remarked  Mr.  Bishop,  with  gal- 
lantry. 

"  We'd  better  speak  to  the  proprietors  about  it,  and  make 
it  an  inducement  for  her  to  come,  if  it  is  going  to  put  a  stop 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.     % 

to  the  complaining,  "  said  Harriet,  with  a  little  venom.  For 
it  was  not  always  that  Felix  found  everything  so  satisfactory 
as  to-night. 

After  they  had  left  the  table,  Dorla,  feeling  unconsciously 
the  coldness  of  Harriet  and  the  ill-nature  of  Miss  Wnymple, 
took  refuge  with  Mrs.  Yarian.  This  lady,  for  some  reason, 
was  a  little  more  interested  in  her  than  usuai.  She  put  her 
arm  around  her  in  a  motherly  sort  of  way  and  said,  "  My 
dear,  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  good  looking  !  "  Nothing 
could  have  pleased  the  young  woman  better.  She  turned  her 
head  about  and  kissed  Mrs.  Yarian's  hand  which  lay  upon 
her  shoulder.  Then  they  went  and  sat  down  on  the  piazza 
by  themselves. 

"  It's  nice  having  Felix  home,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  the  mother. 

"  O,  yes  !  how  happy  you  must  be,"  said  Dorla,  "  and  so 
proud  of  him.  Mrs.Varian,  I  often  have  wondered  since  I 
saw  him,  how  you  could  ever  let  him  be  so  much  away." 

"  My  dear,  he  doesn't  ask  me."  And  the  selfish,  easy- 
tempered  mother  gave  a  little  sigh.  "Our  children  don't 
live  for  us,  you  know.  We  are  only  part  of  the  furniture  of 
the  nursery,  and  they  think  they  have  the  world  before 
them,  when  they  once  get  out  of  it." 

"  O,  Mrs.  Varian,  it  must  be  hard  for  a  mother  to  feel 
that.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  could." 

"  I  think  you  will  some  day.  It  is  part  of  a  woman's  lot, 
to  be  left  behind." 

"  Yes,  but  not  forgotten  !  It  would  be  hard  to  be  left 
behind,  but  it  would  be  death  to  be  forgotten,  to  feel  you 
had  not  made  yourself  a  part  of  your  child's  life,  that  you 
irere  not  a  constant  influence." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  we  all  have  these  ideas  when  we  begin 
\ife.  We  have  to  give  them  up  as  we  go  along,  one  after 
another.  When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  you  won't  have 
much  sentiment  left,  I  am  afraid?  Yes,  I  went  through  all  thia 
iort  of  feeling  when  Felix  and  Harriet  were  babies  — partic- 
ularly Felix,  for  he  waa  the  first,  and  you  know  we  alwavi 


f      A  PREFECT  ADONIS. 

feel  as  if  the  world  had  begun  agaiii  when  our  first  bab) 
comes.  And  Harriet  was  a  cross  little  torment,  enough  tt 
take  the  sentiment  out  of  Mrs.  Die-away  herself.  But  Felix 
was  such  a  perfect  piece  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  so  coaxing 
and  good  always,  there  was  some  excuse  for  thinking  he 
would  always  do  exactly  as  I  wanted  him  to  do." 

"  O,  one  can't  expect  that,  can  one  ?  "  said  Dorla,  un- 
easily. "  Children  have  their  own  lives  to  live  and  can't  think 
our  thoughts,  and  just  live  ours.  But  if  they  love  us,  and 
are  affectionate  and  tender  always — " 

"  Yes,  that's  something.  But  you'll  find  it's  full  of  dis- 
appointment, and  that  the  less  you  expect  of  your  children, 
the  less  chagrin  and  sorrow  you  will  have." 

"  Mrs.  Varian,  you  to  say  this,  of  all  women  !  "  cried 
Dorla,  coaxingly,  following  Mrs.  Varian's  glance  towards  the 
group,  among  whom  Felix  stood  a  Prince. 

"  He  is  handsome,  isn't  he,"  said  the  mother,  with  another 
little  sigh.  "  But  he  isn't  much  to  me,  my  dear.  To-morrow 
I  couldn't  get  him  to  go  there  or  to  stay  here,  if  he  didn't 
feel  like  it.  Some  foolish  pretty  woman  could  take  hira  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth  if  he  fancied  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
while  1^ might  storm  and  scold  and  plead  without  the  least  ef- 
fect. No  ;  Felix  is  not  a  bad  son  ;  he  has  never  given  me 
any  real  anxiety,  and  1  suppose  I  ought  to  be  very  thankful. 
All  the  trouble  is,  he  has  had  too  easy  times,  too  much 
mouey,  too  much  liberty,  too  many  people  after  him.  No 
wo~>der  that  he  won't  mind  me.  There's  more  l  to  him '  as  the 
Yankees  say,  than  has  come  out.  He  wants  a  good  sharp 
trouble,  Master  Felix  does.  And  I  sometimes  wish  it  would 
come  and  settle  him." 

"  O,  don't  wish  that !  "  said  Dorla,  wincing.  « Things 
tome  soon  enough." 

"  Well,  maybe  I  need  it  too,  as  well  as  he.  Yes,  my 
dear,  if  anybody  ever  says  \o  you,  I  am  a  worldly  woman 
•nd  ha^e  brought  up  my  children  badly,  you  can  tell 
thorn  T  know  it,  and  have  known  it  a  good  deal  longei 


A   PERFECT  ADONIS.     4  139 

than  any  body  else.  It  was  too  late,  though,  before  I 
found  it  out.  And  what  with  good  health  and  prosperity, 
and  the  power  to  enjoy  my  easy  life,  I  am  just  going  on  aa 
I  have  always  gone ;  and  heaven  knows  when  my  reforma- 
tion is  to  come.  It's  hard  not  to  wish  things  different  for 
'lie  children,  but  fo-r  myself  I  can  bear  whatever  chances. 
I'm  not  a  coward  when  the  time  comes.  But  this  is  idle 
talk.  Here  comes  Felix  for  you,  and  I  must  be  going  in." 
She  gathered  up  her  yellow  covered  book  and  her  fan  and 
her  shawl,  and  lumbered  away  into  the  house  by  the  nearest 
door.  Her  voice  had  been  husky  and  Dorla  had  seen  tears 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected  a  manifesta- 
tion of  feeling,  that  she  was  silent  and  abstracted  even  after 
Felix  joined  her.  She  had,  more  than  is  usual  at  her  age,  the 
power  of  entering  into  the  feelings  of  others ;  and  even  while 
the  son  talked  to  her,  she  was  going  back  into  the  life  of 
the  mother,  who  had  shown  her  for  one  moment  her  real 
heart. 

"  What  has  my  mother  been  saying  to  you,"  asked  Felix, 
in  a  little  while,  quick  to  perceive  her  abstraction. 

"  Nothing,"  returned  Dorla,  coloring.  "  Nothing  of  any 
moment." 

"  But  something  you  will  not  tell  me,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  no  reason  I  shouldn't,  but  it  was  nothing." 

For  if  the  mother  had  sworn  her  on  the  Four  Gospels, 
she  could  not  have  felt  more  bound  than  she  did  to  keep 
that  half-involuntary  confidence  sacred.  She  wondered 
whether  Mrs.  Varian  had  ever  in  her  life  said  as  much  as 
that  to  any  living  being,  and  she  had  judged  her  rightly 
when  she  felt  that  she  had  not.  That  keen  light,  flashed  for 
a  moment  into  the  depths  of  the  worldly  woman's  regret  and 
disappointment,  troubled  her  imagination.  How  was  it  pos- 
sible, she  thought,  to  live  comfortably,  nay,  even  with  jollity, 
ever  that  dark  abyss.  Disappointment,  she  knew  we  all 
have  to  live  through,  but  remorse,  self-condemnation,  that 
iras  insupportable.  "  I  have  been  a  worldly  woman,  I  havs 


140  A  PERFECT  AEONTS. 

brought  up  my  children  badly."  That  was  a  failure.  Who 
could  bear  such  retrospect.  And  then  she  thought  of  the 
comfortable  easy  matron,  with  her  novel  and  her  foot-stool, 
her  sharp  tongue  and  her  lazy  wit,  taking  an  interest  in 
everything  that  was  going  on  in  the  floating  world  about  her, 
exacting  about  all  her  comforts,  absorbed  in  the  present 
moment;  and  the  stricture  at  her  heart  relaxed;  there 
must  be  some  mistake,  she  could  not  have  understood  her 
words. 

"  We  are  going  over  to  the  cottage  bye  and  bye,  for  some 
stupid  game  or  other.  Harriet  insists,"  said  Felix. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do  not  mean  to  call  Twenty  Questions 
stupid,  and  I  suppose  that  is  the  game,  for  it  is  Harriet's 
great  delight  just  now." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"  Better  than  any  way  we  could  have  spent  the  evening, 
except  perhaps,  dancing." 

"  And  you  would  have  liked  dancing  ?  We  will  dance. 
Harriet  shall  give  up  for  once." 

"  I  beg  you,  please  do  not  speak  to  her  about  it.  Let  me 
tell  you,  I  had  rather  play  the  game,  really.  I  am  too  tired 
to  dance." 

Felix  sat  down  reluctantly.  "  She  is  so  self-willed,"  he 
said.  "  Why  could  she  not  have  asked  you,  before  inviting 
those  people,  and  making  all  the  plans." 

"  We  are  all  self-willed  I  think,  as  far  as  that.  Who 
doesn't  like  to  entertain  in  her  own  way.  And  besides, 
it  is  always  so  difficult  to  get  people  to  play  for  dancing.  I 
don't  wonder  Harriet  hates  to  be  asking  favors  of  those 
she  doesn't  like  particularly." 

Felix  looked  at  his  companion  as  if  he  thought  she  were 
an  angel,  while  she  made  these  excuses  for  his  trying  sister. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  We  will  make  up  for  it  to- 
norrow  evening ;  we  will  have  a  ball,  and  you  shall  dance 
whatever  you  please  and  as  much  as  you  please." 

"  Whatever  Miss  Grayson  pleases,  and  as  much  as  we 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  141 

can  got  music  for,  you  mean.  I  have  been  at  these  balls 
before,"  said  Dorla,  rather  languidly. 

"  No,"  said  Felix,  "  not  that  manner  of  ball.  1  will 
telegraph  down  to-night  for  music ;  we  will  have  some  extra 
lamps  put  up  in  the  ball-room  j  and  who  knows,  some  mild 
decorations.  Fauchere  shall  make  our  ices,  and  all  shall 
wear  their  finest  clothes.  You  shall  invite  whom  you  think 
best,  and  it  shall  be  your  ball." 

Dorla  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  pleasure,  (she  was  only 
twenty.)  "  Now  that  will  be  delightful.  You  are  sure 
nothing  else  is  going  on  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  But  if  there  were  forty  things,  they  should 
all  give  way,  and  you  should  have  your  ball." 

"  Will  Harriet  take  kindly  to  it  ? "  said  Dorla,  who 
always  had  misgivings.  <f  You  know  she  doesn't  care  for 
dancing." 

"  I  know.  But  she  must  learn  to  like  what  other  people 
do,  at  times." 

"  The  fact  that  she  ought  to,  won't  help  us,  if  she  gets  a 
prejudice  against  it." 

"  O,  I  will  manage  Harriet,  never  fear." 

tl  But  please  don't  say  anything  disagreeable,  don't  make 
her  annoyed  at  me ;  I  would  rather  never  dance  again." 

"  O,  never  fear  ;  now  let  us  see  what  we  must  do.  We 
shall  want  seventy-five  people.  No,  a  hundred.  Better 
make  it  pretty  general,  had  we  not?  " 

"  O,  yes  ;  don't  hurt  anybody's  feelings." 

<;  I  can  see  Fauchere  in  the  morning.  I  will  speak  to- 
night about  the  ball-room,  and  I  ought  to  send  the  telegram 
at  once."  He  took  out  his  memorandum  book,  and  wrote 
the  telegram  while  he  talked.  Then  tearing  it  off,  he  said, 
u  Now  let  us  decide  who  shall  be  invited." 

It  took  them  a  great  while  to  do  this,  and  while  they  were 
deep  in  it,  a  messenger  arrived  from  Harriet,  asking  them  it 
they  would  come  over  to  the  cottage  at  once,  as  the  Twenty 
Questions'  party  vere  ready  to  begin  their  game. 


U2  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Bother  their  twenty  questions,"  said  Felix,  irreverently, 
getting  up. 

"  But  I  like  it,"  said  Dorla,  following  him. 

"  Only  you  like  dancing  better." 

The  parlor  of  the  cottage  was  long,  and  low,  and  narrovr. 
And  a  trifle  damp.  Several  stains  on  the  ceiling  above  ac- 
counted for  this ;  and  one  of  the  guests  tumbled  over  afoot- 
tub  placed  in  a  corner  to  protect  the  carpet  from  a  leak. 

"  One  more  such  storm  as  this,  and  we  should  have  to 
leave,"  said  Mrs.  Yarian,  who  was  established  in  the  easiest 
chair  in  the  room,  with  a  foot-stool  under  her  feet,  and  a 
screen  behind  her  back.  "What  people  put  up  with  in 
their  summer  quarters !  " 

The  dampness  and  want  of  fire  were  atoned  for  by  plenty 
of  lighted  lamps,  and  the  scene  was  quite  brilliant  to  Dorla 
and  Felix  as  they  came  in  from  the  twilight.  The  people 
were  all  arranged  for  the  game,  on  each  side  of  the  room ; 
Harriet  was  restlessly  moving  up  and  down  between  them, 
and  met  Felix  with  a  reproach  for  his  tardiness. 

"  I  can't  imagine  the  pleasure  in  keeping  people  waiting," 
she  said,  tartly.  Dorla  colored  and  looked  uncomfortable, 
but  Felix  did  not  seem  to  mind  at  all. 

"  You  two  go  to  that  side,"  she  said,  going  to  the  opposite 
side  herself.  f(  Now  we  are  going  to  give  the  subject." 

Dorla  and  Felix  had  seats  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room, 
(in  the  neighborhood  of  the  foot-tub.)  Felix's  chair  was  a 
little  behind  Dorla's,  and  he  talked  to  her  sotto  v>ce  &  good 
deal  of  the  time.  This  was  not  particularly  objectionable  as 
every  one  else  was  talking.  Oliver  and  Miss  Davis  were  on 
thsir  side,  and  rather  led  the  game,  and  Dorla  and  Felix 
took  very  little  interest  in  it.  "  Animal  and  vegetable  king- 
dom," "  yellowish-brown  and  white,"  "  to  sustain  life,51 
'•  poetic  fiction,"  "present  century,"  rolled  meaninglessly 
trout  their  ears  for  some  time.  They  were  talking  about 
who  they  should  invite  to-morrow.  Finally,  Dorla  saw  thej 
vere  needed  in  the  game,  Miss  Davis  was  getting  fretful 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  143 

and  the  other  side  triumphant.  So  she  whispered  to  Felix, 
BO  please  attend  to  the  game,  and  to  get  her  the  list  of 
answers  from  the  umpire.  He  got  them  for  her. 

"  It  doesn't  sound  like  much,"  she  said,  <(  but  let  us  try 
to  think."  Then  after  a  moment,  she  whispered  to  him  tc 
please  ask  what  person  or  persons  were  principally  connected 
with  this  yellowish-brown  and  white  object.  (For  she  had 
a  great  objection  to  hearing  her  own  voice  in  an  assemblage 
of  over  four  persons.)  Felix  had  not  this  objection,  and 
asked  aloud,  after  getting  permission  of  the  party.  The 
answer  after  an  agitating  discussion,  and  much  consultation, 
came. 

"  Two  men." 

"  O,  I  think  I  know,"  she  whispered,  all  excitement. 

Then  Felix  grew  interested.  "  Tell  me  what  you  think  it 
is,"  he  said. 

"O,  I  am  afraid  it  isn't  right." 

"  You're  given  to  misgivings,  I've  remarked." 

"  I  know  it;  but  just  ask  this  question,  and  it  will  decide. 
Ask  the  rank  of  these  two  men." 

After  a  hot  battle  of  rights  over  the  matter,  Harriet  con- 
tending that  the  answer  should  be  given  separately  respect- 
ing each  man,  so  making  two  questions,  and  Oliver  main- 
taining that  they  were  bound  to  tell  it  all  at  once,  the 
answer  was  given. 

"  One  man  was  in  the  lower  rank  of  life,  the  other 
in  a  higher." 

"  Now  I  do  know,"  whispered  Dorla,  with  enthusiasm. 
"  It  is  the  <  One  Fish  Ball.' " 

"  Shall  I  roar  it  through  the  hall,"  cried  Felix,  starting  to 
his  feet. 

There  was  dismay  and  confusion  well  concealed,  in  the 
opposite  party. 

"Roar  what  through  the  hall,"  said  Miss  Grayson, 
*toutly. 

«  Your  ODD  Fish  Ball,"  returned   Felix. 


144  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Do  you  make  that  as  a  guess,"  said  Davis,  with  hypo 
critical  eagerness.  "  Do  you  all  agree  ?  Remember  yon 
have  but  three." 

"  We  all  agree,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Well,—  it  is,"  said  Davis. 

"  At  the  sixth  question ! "  cried  Felix,  tauntingly.  "  O, 
it  was  pitiful," 

"  It  wasn't  the  sixth,  it  was  th^e  seventh,"  returned 
Harriet,  angrily.  "  And  somebody  told.  I  know  you 
didn't  guess  it." 

"Of  course  somebody  told!     Mrs.  Rothermel  told." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Harriet,"  said  Dorla.  "  I  think  it  was 
easy  to  guess,  don't  you  ?  But  very  funny,  and  you  played 
it  very  well." 

Harriet  turned  away  from  this  soft  pacifying,  with  a 
supreme  contempt.  "  If  you're  going  to  play  on  your  side 
you  had  better  choose  a  subject." 

"  It's  early  yet,"  said  Felix,  provokmgly.  "  You  didn't 
waste  much  time,  you  know." 

t(  What  shall  we  have,"  said  Dorla,  all  excitement. 
There  were  about  nine  people  on  each  side.  The  nine  on 
their  side  huddled  together  in  close  consultation.  Mr. 
Oliver,  who  always  approved  of  the  hilarious,  was  in  favor 
of  the  wax  on  Ah  Sin's  fingers,  or  the  Sour  Apple  Tree  on 
which  the  honored  head  of  the  late  confederacy  was  to  hang. 
"  Too  easily  guessed,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop.  Miss  Davis  and 
the  younger  Miss  Whymple  wanted  Jack  and  Gill's  pail,  or 
the  malt  in  the  rat's  stomach  ;  and  Mrs.  Whymple,  who 
read  historical  works  of  a  weak  cast,  proposed  the  dagger 
that  somebody  was  killed  with  in  the  eleventh  century. 

"  Stupid,"  whispered  Dorla. 

'  I  never  heard  of  him,"  said  Felix. 

w  Well  you  ought  to,"  said  Mrs.  Whymple,  seriously. 

"  That  may  be,"  he  returned,  "  but  I  protest  against 
having  my  mind  improved,  or  my  ignorance  exposed,  in  such 
*  mixeu  assembly." 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  145 

3  We  are  tired  of  waiting,"  cried  the  other  side. 

"We  must  decide  on  something,"  said  Mr.  Oliver, 
anxiously. 

"The  mirror  of  the  Lady  of  Shallot,"  whispered  Dorla, 
in  her  companion's  ear. 

"  The  very  thing,"  he  said.  So  he  went  among  the  others 
and  told  them  that  must  be  the  subject,  and  it  was  acceptei 
without  much  demur. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  some  '  sweet  thing '  out  of 
Tennyson,"  she  said,  when  he  had  come  back  and  they  had 
settled  themselves  into  their  places.  The  first  questions 
went  off  rapidly  and  amicably.  It  was  of  the  mineral 
kingdom ;  it  never  really  existed ;  it  was  probably  of  an 
oblong  shape ;  it  was  probably  two  feet  by  a  foot  and  a  half 
in  size  ;  its  use  was  to  convey  intelligence  ;  it  was  heard  of 
.in  poetic  fiction ;  the  person  principally  connected  with  it 
was  a  woman. 

"  We  are  lost,"  3aid  Dorla,  trembling  with  excitement. 
"  I  can  see  Harriet  has  caught  the  idea  of  it." 

"  We  will  put  her  off,"  said  Felix,  confidently.  Then  tho 
color  was  asked. 

"  Steel  grey,"  the  younger  Whymple  had  begun  to  say, 
when  Dorla,  uttering  a  cry,  flew  down  the  room  and  stopped 
Uer. 

"  Don't  be  such  an  idiot,"  she  whispered,  forgetting 
decency ;  "  they  almost  know  now ;  you  would  just  be 
telling  them." 

"  I  shall  play  a  fair  game,"  said  the  young  woman  muck 
Affronted.  "  It  is  steel  grey." 

"  It  isn't,"  said  Dorla,  warmly,  under  her  breath.  "  It 
vjn't  any  more  steel  grey  than  any  other  color.  It  reflects 
all  colors ;  it  is  one  color  one  moment,  another  another." 

In  a  moment  the  line  was  doubled  up,  and  there  was  a 
hot  discussion,  heads  all  together.  Felix  of  course  main 
tained  Dork's  rather  questionable  position ;  so  did  Mr. 
Oliver  and  Mrs.  Vp-rian.  But  the  others  declared  them- 


146  A  PERFECT  ADONlti. 

Belves  unable  to  see  it  in  that  light.  Dorla  argued,  hei 
eyes  flashing — she  went  on  her  knees  beside  Mrs.  Bishop'a 
chair,  and  coaxed  and  reasoned  as  if  her  life  depended  on  it. 
She  put  her  hand  on  that  of  the  stubborn  Miss  Why  ru  pie, 
and  said  "  Dear  Miss  Whymple,"  in  a  tone  that  might  have 
melted  a  heart  of  steel -grey  granite.  She  finally  conquered, 
and  went  back  breathless  to  her  seat,  while  the  answer 
was  given,  "  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow." 

"After  all,  it  won't  help  us  much,"  said  Oliver 
"  They'll  be  very  stupid  if  they  don't  see  through  it." 

"  We  will  at  least  die  game,"  said  Felix.  Then  the  other 
side,  convinced  of  foul  play,  were  very  rancorous  and  bitter, 
and  would  put  no  further  question. 

"  It  was  very  easy  to  see  they  would  get  no  honest 
answers." 

After  they  were  mollified,  and  persuaded  to  go  on, 
there  was  a  forced  peace,  during  one  or  two  unimportant 
questions  and  responses.  Then  came  the  decisive  one,  "  At 
what  date  was  this  poetic  fiction  written?  " 

It  was  Mrs.  Bishop's  turn  to  answer ;  she  was  beginning 
10  speak,  when  Felix  and  Dorla  flew  upon  her. 

"  The  fifteenth  century,"  they  put  into  her  mouth. 

lf  Now,  upon  my  word,  this  is  trampling  on  the  rights  of 
conscience,"  she  exclaimed  below  her  breath.  lf  It  is  bad 
enough  to  make  us  consent  to  say  that  black  is  white,  and 
steei  grey  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  But  to  say  that 
Tennyson  wrote  in  the  fifteenth  century  !  that  is  a  step  too 
far." 

fl  I  did  not  know  we  had  anything  to  do  with  Tennyson,*" 
said  Felix,  loftily. 

ft  Dear  Mrs.  Bishop,"  whispered  Dorla,  sinking  down  on 
her  knees  and  putting  her  arms  in  Mrs-.  Bishop's  lap,  "  Mr. 
Varian  knows  all  about  it.  Just  trust  him.  This  legend  is 
part  of  Sir  Thomas  Mallory's  book  ;  he  was  a  Welshman  you 
know,  and  he  \rrote  in  the  fifteenth  century.  Tennyson 
wily  v.scd  it,  like  all  those  Round  Table  things.  As  he  Fays, 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  14? 

ire  haven't  anything  to  do  with  Tennyson  that  I  can 
see." 

"  But  how  do  I  know  some  Welsh  fellow  wrote  it  ? " 
Baid  Mrs.  Bishop,  dubiously,  "and  not  Tennyson?" 

"Why,  you  know  it  because  Mr.  Yarian  tells  you  so." 

"  Are  we  to  believe  everything  that  Mr.  Varian  tells  us 
then?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  said  Dorla,  with  emphasis.  "  I 
know  I  do,  and  I  think  it  is  a  very  little  thing  to  ask  of 
you,  dear  Mrs.  Bishop;  don't  be  obstinate.  Just  say  this, 
and  it  will  save  us.  They  will  never  guess." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop  with  a  groan. 
The  scruples  of  all  the  others  had  to  be  overcome,  and  at 
last  the  answer  was  delivered.  A  damp  chill  fell  upon  the 
other  party.  They  were  more  than  half-way  through  the 
game,  and  had  not  the  faintest  clue.  Harriet  particularly 
was  much  out  of  temper,  for  she  had  been  pretty  sure  that 
she  had  guessed  it,  and  now  she  was  quite  at  sea.  As 
answer  after  answer  put  them  further  from  the  mark  they 
became  exasperated  quite  beyond  good  manners.  They 
grew  reckless,  some  lost  interest,  while  the  leaders  lost 
temper.  They  grew  very  wild  in  their  guesses,  and  wasted 
half  their  questions. 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  this  sort  of  playing,"  said 
Harriet.  "  I  never  lost  a  game  before." 

"  There  must  be  a  beginning,"  said  her  brother. 

w  But  I  have  never  played  against  this  combination," 
and  she  shot  an  angry  glance  at  Dorla,  who  was  held 
responsible  for  all  the  trouble. 

It  is  very  amusing  to  be  on  the  winning  side  of  a  game 
uf  twenty  questions,  and  Dorla  and  Felix,  and  Miss  Davis 
and  Mr.  Oliver  were  as  merry  as  their  opponents  were 
irritable.  The  clock  struck  eleven ,  the  last  question  had 
been  answered,  only  one  guess  remained.  The  elders  began 
to  grow  uneasy,  and  Mrs.  Bishop  actually  put  on  her  cloak. 
Harriet  refused  to  give  up ;  the  rest  of  the  party  were  foi 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS 


in.  Matters  became  serious  ;  Harriet  was  •t'ery 
angry,  Felix  most  exasperating.  It  had  narrowed  down  to 
a  family  quarrel. 

"  I  beg  you,"  said  Dorla,  getting  frightened,  aside  to  Felix, 
"  do  try  to  pacify  her.  I  am  sorry  we  have  gone  so  far." 

Then  Felix  began  to  fear  she  might  say  something  tha*. 
would  wound  Dorla,  and  he  ceased  his  gibes,  but  did  not 
help  her  with  her  guess. 

"  Make  haste,  we  must  go,"  said  Mrs.  Whymple,  who 
was  getting  sleepy. 

"  We  give  up,"  said  Davis,  who  was  very  tired.  Then 
Felix  called  out  the  subject,  over  Harriet's  protest,  which 
was  loud  and  sharp.  There  was  of  course  a  shout  of  deri- 
sion and  rage,  and  a  perfect  clamor  of  voices  upon  this 
Every  question  was  declared  unfairly  answered,  and  the 
sleepy  ones  woke  up  to  wrath,  and  ior  ten  minutes  no  one 
could  be  heard  above  the  clamor.  Davis  and  Oliver  closed 
m.  single  combat  as  it  were,  over  the  list  of  questions. 
Mrs.  Bishop  forgot  how  late  it  was  in  her  eagerness  to 
defend  herself  from  the  many  accusations  rained  upon  her. 
The  younger  Whymple  almost  cried  at  her  older  sister's 
reproaches,  and  said  it  was  all  Mrs.  Rothermel.  Even 
Mrs.  Varian  forgot  how  damp  the  floor  was,  and  stood  for 
many  minutes  by  the  door  convincing  Mr.  Davis  pere, 
low  perfectly  correct  they  were. 

"  Let  us  escape,"  said  Felix,  putting  Dorla's  cloak  on. 
"  I  think  it  is  hardly  safe  for  us  to  say  a  word." 

So  they  went  over  to  the  hotel,  and  waited  for  the  arrival 
of  the  others,  hoping  time  would  heal  their  wounds.  Mrs 
Varian  came  first,  and  told  Dorla  to  come  up  with  her. 
She  was  to  occupy  a  room  next  Harriet's,  and  opposite  to 
ners.  Dorla  waited  till  she  heard  Harriet  come  up,  and 
then  she  opened  her  door,  and  said  softly  "  Harriet,  you'll 
forgive  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

*'  No,  I  won't,"  cried  Harriet,  in  a  fury,  and  slammed  hef 
ioor  shut  in  poor  Dorla's  very  face. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  There,  there,"  cried  the  mother,  laughing^,  and  kissed 
ihe  visitor  good-night  apologetically. 

Certainly  for  damage  to  good  manners  there  is  nothing 
equal  to  a  game  of  twenty  questions. 

After  breakfast,  at  which  Harriet  did  not  appear,  and 
Mrs.  Rothermel  breakfasted  between  Felix  and  ais  mother, 
it  was  arranged  that  Felix  was  to  drive  to  Port  Jervis  for 
something  that  was  needed  for  the  "  ball."  Mrs.  Yarian 
entered  into  the  plans  for  this  festivity  with  some  interest, 
and  promised  to  see  that  everyone  was  invited  that  should 
be,  and  said  Harriet  should  help.  Dorla  looked  doubtful  at 
this,  and  Mrs.  Yarian  said  they  wouldn't  tell  her  it  was  in 
Dorla's  honor. 

"No,  for  I'm  afraid  she  is  my  enemy  for  life,"  said 
Dorla. 

"  Oh,  nothing  is  for  life  with  Harriet,  except  her  temper," 
said  her  brother,  tenderly. 

"  Hush,  Felix,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  always  provoke 
your  sister.  She's  ten  times  as  self-willed  when  you  are  here." 

"  Well,  that  isn't  very  often.  She  has  time  to  become 
very  lovely  while  I  am  away." 

f(  She  is  a  great  deal  nicer  when  you  are  not  here,  how- 
ever you  may  laugh  it  off,"  repeated  Mrs.  Yarian. 

"  Yes,  that  is  quite  true,"  said  Dorla,  very  low,  with  a 
great  look  of  soft  reproach  in  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  I'll  reform,"  said  Felix.  «  I  am  in  earnest.  You 
will  see." 

Mrs.  Bishop  was-  sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  piazza,  trying 
to  get  warm,  and  Dorla  went  to  her  for  a  few  minutes. 
Felix  took  that  occasion  to  ask  his  mother  to  get  Mrs.  Rotb- 
ermel  to  go  to  Port  Jervis  with  him. 

"  She'll  be  apt  to  think  she  ought  to  stay  here  with  you 
and  Harriet,  if  you  don't  propose  it  to  her." 

"Felix,  what  wre  you  about,"  said  his  mother,  lay. 
ing  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  You  know  every  one  is  talk- 
ing of  this  matter." 


150  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Nonsense,  mother.  At  your  age  to  take  such  a  thing  KB 
fchis  so  seriously.  *  One  would  think  you  had  been  living  in 
the  woods." 

"  Well,  well,  I  suppose  she  is  old  enough  to  take  care  oi 
herself,"  said  the  easy-minded  elder,  smothering  a  move- 
ment of  her  sluggish  conscience,  but  giving  a  little  sigh,  as 
she  called  Dorla  to  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  down  to  Port  Jervis  with  Felix  ?  ' 
she  said.  "  I  shall  have  to  go  over  and  sit  with  Mrs.  Bishop 
for  awhile  at  the  cottage,  as  I  promised  her,  and  it  will 
make  it  rather  dull  for  you.  Felix  seems  to  think  you'  will 
enjoy  the  drive." 

"  It  is  such  a  cool,  fine  morning,"  Felix  said. 

Dorla  brightened.  She  had  had  rather  a  depressed  an- 
ticipation of  a  hotel  morning,  worsted-work  and  gossip.  "  I 
should  like  to  go,  but.  would  not  Harriet  enjoy  it?  and  let 
me  stay  with  you  and  Mrs.  Bishop." 

"  Oh,  Harriet  would  not  think  of  it.  She  abhors  my 
trotting  wagon,  and  besides  she  has  an  engagement  for  cro- 
quet ;  I  heard  her  speak  of  it  last  night." 

So  Dorla  went  to  drive.  ''What  is,  the  girl  thinking 
about,"  muttered  Mr.  Bishop,  somewhat  troubled,  as  he  saw 
them  drive  away; 

"  She  is  thinking  of  having  a  good  time,"  said  Mr.  Davis 
pere,  who  was  sunning  himself  in  the  same  corner  of  the  piazza. 

"  She  has  not  stopped  to  think,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  with 
more  insight,  and  a  sensation  of  compassion. 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  make  any  difference  when  she 
does  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Davis,  with  a  cynical  little  laugh. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  thoughtfully.  "  I  think  it  will, 
a  great  difference.  But  of  course  I  can't  be  sure." 

The  Whymple  girls  ran  to  look  out  of  the  parlor  windows 
&t  her,  and  were  much  chagrined.  They  hated  her. 

"  How  absolu  tely  brazen,  "  they  said  to  Mr.  Oliver. 

"  That  young  Varian  is  a  reckless  fellow,  I'm  afraid,"  said 
Oliver,  for  he  must  say  something. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  151 

"  Oh,  I  don't  blame  him,"  they  cried  in  a  breath.  "  He 
really  could  not  help  himself.  She  has  no£  left  him  a  momen 
to  himself  since  he  arrived." 

Pretty  soon,  Mrs.  Varian  came  and  told  them  about  the 
dance,  and  that  diverted  their  thoughts  from  Dorla  for  a  lit- 
tle while.  Every  one  was  glad  there  was  to  be  a  dance,  evei 
Miss  Grayson,  who  was  above  it ;  for  it  was  something  to 
look  at  and  to  talk  about,  if  not  to  join  in. 

The  drive  to  Port  Jervis  was  charming.  Dorla  buttoned 
her  jaunty  little  driving  sacque  very  close  up  in  her  throat, 
and  even  shivered  a  little  when  they  started.  But  soon  the 
sunshine  grew  warmer.  And  at  Port  Jervis  they  got  out  o< 
the  wagon,  and  walked  a  little  to  get  warm.  Then  they  did 
their  shopping  ;  that  was  very  amusing,  picking  their  way 
about  the  grimy  little  town,  and  going  into  shops  where 
there  was  nothing  that  they  wanted ;  getting,  principally, 
caramels  and  some  wizened  looking  peaches,  though  they 
had  come  with  a  long  list  of  other  and  more  necessary  things. 

"  We  shall  have  to  give  up  Mrs.  Variants  worsted,"  said 
Dorla,  pausing  before  a  shop  door.  t(  I  don't  believe  they 
have  it  here." 

"  No,  I  should  think  not,"  returned  her  companion,  "  ah 
it  is  a  druggist's." 

"  O,  well,  they  confuse  things  so ;  such  mixtures.  I  am 
sure  it  is  not  strange  that  I  mistook  it  for  a  milliner's." 

"  I  am  not  blaming  you,"  said  Felix. 

"  No,  but  you  are  laughing  at  me,  which  is  even  worse," 
returned  Dorla,  coming  down  the  steps  in  some  confusion. 

The  people  in  the  shops  looked  after  them ;  it  was  not 
cften  they  saw  any  two  so  gifted  with  health  and  youth  and 
beauty,  and  with  fortune  too.  A  poor  girl  sewing  at  a 
heavy  machine,  in  a  close,  dark  room,  had  come  to  the  win- 
uow  for  a  moment  to  breathe,  and  caught  sight  of  the  plume 
in  Dorla's  hat  that  had  caught  the  sunlight.  She  leaned 
forward  and  saw  her  beautiful  face,  and  her  tall  lithe  figure, 
ind  her  happy  look. 


162  A  PERFECT  AVOWS 

"  I  am  no  older  than  she  is,"  she  thought  bitterly,  "  and 
see  the  difference.^'  And  she  went  heavily  back  to  her  work 
when  they  were  out  of  sight,  and  thought  of  her  all  day  with 
envy. 

There  was  a  parasol  to  be  mended,  and  a  watch  to  have  a 
crystal  on,  and  for  these  they  had  to  wait,  but  the  time  did 
not  seem  long.  It  was  somewhat  after  twelve  when  they 
were  ready  to  go  back,  but  the  day  was  still  so  cool  that  it 
was  pleasant  driving. 

"  You  will  not  be  too  tired  for  this  evening,  I  hope  ?  "  said 
Felix,  as  they  drove  across  the  bridge.  "  I  ought  not  to 
have  brought  you  here,  perhaps." 

"  O,  I  shall  not  be  tired.  I  shall  rest  to-morrow ;  for 
these  last  few  days  I  have  not  stopped  to  think  or  breathe. 
Do  you  see!  I  have  been  almost  rushing.  And  I  am  not 
used  to  this  sort  of  dissipation,  and  I  shall  stop  to-morrow." 

"  O,  it  is  good  for  you,"  said  Felix,  rather  uneasily;  "  do 
not  stop  to-morrow.  We  shall  have  something  new  for 
then." 

They  reached  the  hotel  just  in  time  to  go  to  dinner  with 
Mrs.  Yarian,  who  hadn't  waited  for  them,  but  who  happened 
to  be  just  passing  through  the  hall.  Harriet  was  decidedly 
cold,  but  less  offensive  than  they  had  dared  to  hope. 
After  dinner,  they  sat  awhile  on  the  piazza,  with  a 
number  of  others,  talking  of  the  evening's  entertainment.  A 
favorable  answer  had  come  in  the  matter  of  the  music ;  the 
ball-room  was  being  put  in  order  even  while  they  talked. 

"  Now  I  must  go  home,"  said  Dorla,  getting  up  as  the 
clock  struck  half-past  three.  "  Mr.  Yarian,  am  I  going  to 
walk,  or  are  you  going  to  drive  me  ?  " 

"  Exactly  as  if  she  owned  him  and  his  horse,  and  every- 
thing that  belonged  to  him,"  muttered  Miss  Grayson,  sotto 
voce  to  her  nearest  neighbor. 

When  the  horse  had  been  brought  around,  and  Dorla  had 
come  down  stairs  with  her  hat  on,  ready  to  go,  Mrs.  Yarian 
patted  her  on  the  shoulder,  and  gave  her  a  motherly  kiss, 


A  PERFECT  AJ)ON18.  153 

and  said  she  must  look  her  prettiest  for  the  evening.  Mr 
Bishop  put  her  in  the  wagon,  and  Mr.  Davis  paid  her  some 
old-gentleinanly  compliment  as  they  drove  away ;  and  poo* 
Dorla  was  very  happy,  quite  ignorant  of  all  that  was  being 
said  and  thought  about  her. 

Felix  tried  to  persuade  her  it  was  just  the  time  for  a  lit- 
tle drive  along  the  river,  but  this  she  resisted,  only  consent- 
ing to  go  the  longest  way,  which  was  more  than  double  the 
length  of  the  ordinary  route,  because  it  was  more  shady 
(which  it  wasn't).  The  horse  was  as  fresh  as  if  he  had  not 
gone  sixteen  miles  in  the  morning,  and  Felix  thought  Dorla 
was  too. 

"  But  there  will  be  no  dancing  for  me  if  I  do  not  rest," 
and  then  Felix  consented  to  drive  directly  to  the  farm. 

At  the  gate  she  said  good-bye  to  him,  and  went  in  the 
house. 

{( Why,  George,"  she  cried  in  surprise,  meeting  him  upon 
the  stairs,  "  you  here !  I  thought  you  were  not  coming  till 
the  evening  train." 

He  kissed  her,  and  told  her  his  business  was  over  sooner 
than  he  thought,  and  now  he  was  to  be  at  home  for  a  week 
or  two,  at  least.  ((  Tell  me  all  you  have  been  doing,"  he 
said  as  they  went  up  the  stairs  together. 

"  George,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  over  his  arm,  "  I 
ha^e  been  having  such  a  lovely  time.  And  what  do  you 
think  we  are  going  to  do  to-night.  Mr.  Varian  has  tele- 
graphed for  music,  six  pieces,  and  we  are  to  have  a  dance 
and  it  is  really  to  be  my  ball,  though  we  don't  say  so,  for 
Harriet  is  such  a  perverse  thing,  we  can't  depend  upon  her 
not  to  spoil  it  all." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  great  friends." 

"  O,  we  were,  but  some  miserable  pique  about  playing 
twenty  questions  has  put  her  in  such  an  odious  temper, 
you'd  be  ashamed  of  a  child  of  ten  years  old  that  acted  sa 
Bui  no  matter,  she  can't  stop  the  dance." 


154  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear  ?  "  said  George,  interested, 
out  feeling  a  little  as  if  he  were  out  in  the  cold. 

"  My  pink  dress,  don't  you  think  so  ?  It  is  the  prettiest 
thing  I  have,  and  the  most  dressy." 

"  Did  you  miss  me  very  much  ?  "  said  George,  sitting  down 
by  the  window,  and  keeping  Dorla's  hand.  He  was  yearn- 
ing for  a  little  sentiment,  and  something  that  belonged  to 
him  more  than  these  high  spirits. 

"  O,  yes — that  is,"  said  truthful  Dorla  correcting  her- 
Belf,  "  I  should  have  done  so  if  I  hadn't  gone  down  to  the 
hotel.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  have  a  dismal  time  all  by 
myself  in  such  a  pouring  storm.  It  was  very  kind  of  Har- 
riet to  send  for  me,  even  if  she  did  quarrel  with  me  after- 
wards." 

"  It  seems  an  age  since  I  was  away,"  said  George. 

"  It  does  seem  a  good  while,  doesn't  it  ?  so  many  things 
have  happened." 

"  I  travelled  all  night,"  said  George. 

"  You  did  ?  "  said  Dorla,  "  you  must  be  tired  to  death. 
tk>  and  lie  down,  and  take  a  rest,  or  you  will  not  enjoy 
/ourself  to-night.  That's  what  I  am  going  to  do  myself." 

But  George  would  not  lie  down ;  he  closed  the  shutters 
for  Dorla,  and  kissed  her,  and  left  her  alone  to  sleep.  She 
was  really  so  tired  that  she  fell  fast  asleep,  and  did  not 
waken  till  half-past  seven  o'clock,  when  dear  old  Mrs.  Roth- 
ermel  came  up  with  her  tea ;  then  she  lifted  herself  upon  her 
elbow,  and  looked  around  the  darkening  room  bewildered ; 
but  everything  came  back  in  a  moment  in  a  rush  of  pleasure. 
She  threw  her  arms  around  Mrs.  Rothermel,  and  exclaimed, 
"  You  dear,  good  mother,  to  bring  up  my  tea  !  This  is  my 
last  dissipation.  I  am  going  to  be  quiet  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  E-othermel  kissed  her,  and  told  her  she  hoped  noi,, 
Chat  nothing  pleased  her  so  much  as  to  see  her  happy 
George  came  up,  and  buttered  her  toast  for  her,  and  put  th« 
cream  upon  her  berries.  "  Everybody  is  so  good  to  me," 
thought  Dorla,  and  she  was  so  sweet  and  affectionate  tha* 


A  PERFECT  AVONI8.  15fi 

George  was  supremely  happy,  and  forgave  her  for  being  in 
such  good  spirits  while  he  was  away. 

The  servants  ah-ed  and  oh-ed  when  Dorla  was,  dressed, 
Old  Mrs.  Rothermel  almost  cried  with  excitement  and  joy, 
<hat  such  a  beautiful  creature  should  belong  to  them. 
George  himself  was  full  of  elation.  He  belonged  to  that 
tiinall  and  almost  extinct  class  of  men  who  delight  in.  hav- 
ing their  wives  admired.  All  the  amiable  ambition  of  his. 
heart  was  to  be  of  some  importance  socially,  and  the  short- 
est way  to  this  was  through  the  applause  that  Dorla's  beauty 
would  obtain.  One  great  element  in  his  happiness  was  the* 
knowledge  that  he  had  married  the  most  noticed  girl  that 
had  come  within  his  sphere  (this  was  unconscious;  he 
thought  his  happiness  was  all  made  up  of  love).  He  had  no 
idea  of  being  jealous ;  he  should  as  soon,  have  thought  of 
being  suspicious  of  the  Madonna  in  the  picture  that  Dorla 
kept  hanging  above  her  bed.  He  was  so  content  with  his 
fate,  he  could  not  conceive  that  she  could  need  anything 
beyond  him  ;  he  had  not  much  imagination. 

Certainly,  she  was  something  to  be  proud  of,  as  she  came 
down  stairs  in  her  pink  dress,  with  roses  on  her  breast.  He 
l»«t  her  in  the  rockaway,  and  drove  her  to  the  hotel  as  if  she 
\v\-re  a  very  valuable  possession.  There  they  found  Felix 
v,r; tiring  for  them  a  little  restlessly  on  the  piazza.  Tim  was 
jjiveu  charge  of  the  horses,  and  George  followed  them  into 
the  little  parlor. 

"  My  mother  is  waiting  for  you,"  said  Felix,  as  they 
entered.  Mrs.  Yarian  was  occupying  the  time  in  a  game  of 
cards  at  a  little  table. 

;*  There,  there,  Mr.  Bishop,  I  suppose  we  must  go,"  she 
•»aid  nodding  to  the  Rothermels,  and  getting  up  with  the  dif- 
ficulty peculiar  to  stout,  elderly  persons,  and  taking  Mr. 
Bishop's  arm.  "  It's  our  ball,  and  I  suppose  we  must  go 
and  open  it.  Dorla,  my  dear,  you  are  quite  magnificent, 
Harriet,  isn't  her  iress  lovely  ?  suefr  good  style." 

"  Quite  too  handsome  for  such  a  place  as  this,"  said  Har» 


156  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

riet,  who  looked  shabby,  and  was  not  in  a  good  humor  yet 
But  she  was  a  little  consoled  by  the  weight  which  her  words 
had  with  George,  who  always  looked  to  her  with  reverence, 
She  took  his  arm  and  gave  him  some  social  maxims,  which 
were  listened  to  with  much  respect,  as  she  followed  her 
mother  and  Dorla  into  the  room.  George  wished  that  Dorla 
had  saved  her  beautiful  French  dress,  which  held  the  front 
rank  in  her  wedding  outfit,  as  Harriet  said  this  wasn't  a 
proper  place  to  wear  it ;  but  all  the  same  it  was  very  nice  to 
see  the  people  gaze  after  her,  and  to  hear  the  murmurs  of 
admiration  which  followed  her.  She  looked  like  a  queen 
among  the  flimsy  summer  muslins  of  the  others. 

((  Quite  a  beauty,  quite  a  beauty,"  said  the  elder  Davis 
nodding  approbation,  eye-glass  and  all.  tf  She  would  be 
noticed  anywhere.  I  have  seen  a  great  many  pretty  women 
in  my  day,  but  upon  my  word,  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to  say 
where  I  had  seen  a  prettier." 

"  Imagine  all  that  elegance  shut  up  in  a  Pike  County 
farm-house,"  said  Miss  Grayson,  from  a  height. 

"  Poor  Rothermel,  I'm  sorry  for  him ;  he  has  a  life  be- 
fore him,"  said  young  Davis,  with  an  irritated  laugh. 

As  for  Oliver,  his  withered  old  heart  hadn't  got  over  the 
tenderness  for  his  sweetheart  of  last  summer ;  he  could  not 
bear  to  look  at  her,  and  turned  his  back  upon  the  cloud  of 
pink  when  it  appeared,  and  danced  Miss  Davis  out  of  breath, 
to  k^ep  himself  from  thinking. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  am  too  much  dressed,"  asked 
D  :>rla,  with  a  shade  of  trouble  on  her  face.  ff  Harriet  says 
Uiy  dross  is  too  handsome  to  wear  here." 

"  It  isn't,"  said  Felix.  "  Harriet  knows  nothing  about 
iress.  You  should  always  be  magnificent.  You  know  J 
think  you  ought  to  be  a  queen." 

She  laughed  a  happy,  innocent  laugh,  and  the  shade  was 
nil  gone  from  her  face.  They  went  gliding  away  in  a  waiiz, 
with  the  smile  yet  on  her  lips.  The  music  was  so  delight 
fill ;  it  was  such  a  pleasure  to  dance  to  it.  The  room  waa 


A  PERFECT  ADON1'8  157 

not  crowded,  there  was  plenty  of  space ;  the  air  was  fresfc 
and  good,  from  many  opened  windows ;  the  lights  were 
bright ;  the  dancing  did  not  drag. 

"  There  is  but  one  way  for  me  not  to  have  to  give  you 
up ;  it  is  to  keep  you  dancing  all  the  time,"  s*id  Felix, 
watching  jealously  the  movements  of  young  Davis,  who  had 
l>een  thwarted  in  many  efforts  to  get  near  her. 

When  the  evening  was  half  over,  Mrs.  Whyrnple  communi 
cated  to  Mrs.  Bishop,  sitting  by  her  side,  in  the  matrons' 
tow  along  the  wall,  that  Mr.  Varian  had  not  danced  with 
any  other  person  all  the  evening ;  she  had  counted,  and  had 
not  missed  a  dance.  Once  Mrs.  Rothermel  had  danced  with 
Mr.  Davis,  and  once  with  that  young  cousin  of  the  Morrises, 
and  Mr.  Varian  had  stood  aloof  and  watched  her,  and  then 
darted  up  and  claimed  her  the  moment  they  had  stopped. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  such  a  state  of  things  as  that," 
Mrs.  Whymple  said,  with  suppressed  virtue  in  her  voice. 
"  At  least  they  might  regard  appearances  a  little.11 

(( O,  nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  good-naturedly 
"  They're  young  and  thoughtless ;  it's  just  the  amusement  of 
the  moment.  A  month  hence  and  they'll  have  forgotten  all 
about  each  other." 

Still  she  looked  a  little  troubled  and  wished  in  her  heart 
that  her  favorite  had  had  more  discretion.  "  It's  a  tempta 
tion  to  have  such  an  amiable  piece  of  insignificance  for  a 
husband,"  she  reflected,  making  an  excuse  for  the  youn<j 
beauty,  as  she  watched  her,  still  on  Felix's  arm,  walking  up 
and  down  the  room,  while  George,  radiant  and  satisfied, 
walked  up  and  down  it  too,  with  Harriet,  or  some  other  per- 
son who  was  not  in  demand. 

The  evening  was  half  over.  Dorla  loved  dancing  so,  and 
was  so  entirely  happy,  she  wished  it  had  just  begun.  The 
music  seemed  to  coax  and  woo  her  on  from  one  dance  to 
mother  and  to  charm  away  all  feeling  of  fatigue.  They 
were  gliding  down  the  room  in  one  of  the  softest,  sweetest 
waltzes. 


158  ^  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

"  What  a  nice  partner  you  are,"  she  said,  like  a  child 
who  has  found  a  play-fellow  to  its  mind.  "  I  had  rather 
dance  with  you  than  with  any  one  else  I  ever  saw  in  all  my 
life." 

Perhaps  it  was  her  own  words,  perhaps  it  was  the  too 
eager  look  in  Felix's  eyes  as  they  met  hers :  but  at  that 
moment  there  flamed  through  Dorla's  heart  and  conscience^ 
the  first  knowledge  of  what  had  befallen  her,  and.  where  she 
stood.  It  was  so  sudden,  so  full,  it  came  like  a  deadly 
shock.  Before  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  room,  Felix 
felt  the  change  in  her  movement. 

c<  You  are  tired,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  Then,  as  he 
caught  sight  of  her  face,  "  you  are  ill,"  he  said,  alarmed,  for 
she  looked  strangely  different. 

"  No,  but  I  don't  want  to  dance  any  more,"  she  said,  in 
an  unsteady  voice.  Then  they  walked  once  more  through 
the  room.  To  the  end  of  her  life,  Dorla  remembered  that 
walk  through  the  room,  while  the  world  seemed  reeling 
around  her  and  everything  looked  unnatural  and  terrifying. 
The  eyes  of  people  said  such  horrible  and  cruel  things  to 
her.  It  had  not  seemed  warm  before,  but  now  she  felt 
suffocated  by  the  light  and  heat.  When  they  neared  the 
door,  Felix  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 

tf  Let  me  take  you  out  where  it  is  cooler." 

She  said  "  yes,"  hurriedly,  for  she  did  not  dare  to  trust 
herself  longer  where  she  was.  She  had  left  her  cloak  in  a 
little  room  of  Mrs.  Yarian's  on  the  second  floor,  and  there 
through  the  ou';er  ball-room  circle  of  maids  and  errand  boys, 
he  led  her.  He  got  her  cloak  and  put  it  about  her,  and  said, 
'•'  Let  me  take  you  to  the  balcony ;  it  is  cool  there  and  quiet, 
and  you  can  rest  awhile." 

She  hardly  knew  what  she  did,  but  followed  him  out  into 
the  ail.  There  was  no  one  on  this  upper  piazza,  which  waa 
not  much  used  except  by  the  children  in  the  morning,  and 
tn  occasional  solitary  reader  or  seamstress  through  the  day 
Felix  perhaps  remembered  this.  Dorla  remembered  noth 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  159 

Ing.  Her  mind  was  surging  and  foaming  with  the  tempest 
chat  one  thought  had  raised.  She  sat  d  >wn  mechanically 
where  he  placed  her  chair,  and  drew  her  cloak  about  her ; 
the  air  was  chilly  after  that  of  the  ball-room,  but  she  did 
not  think  about  the  cold.  Felix  stood  near  her,  leaning 
against  a  post  that  supported  the  piazza.  Neither  of  them 
Bpoke ;  her  face  was  white  and  fixed ;  he  could  see  that 
partly  by  the  grey  shrouded  moonlight,  and  partly  by  the 
lamplight  from  the  hall,  for  on  account  of  this  festivity  the 
lamps  had  been  put  about  abundantly.  He  knew  very  well 
why  she  looked  so.  He  knew  what  his  eyes  had  said  to  her, 
and  that  she  had  awakened  from  her  dream  and  knew  she  loved 
him.  His  heart  was  full  of  passion ;  he  could  not  speak  ;  hia 
words  would  have  choked  him  ;  he  could  only  stand  and  watch 
her  face  in  silence.  He  was  not  even  composed  enough  to 
wonder  what  would  be  the  result ;  he  did  not  speculate  upon 
her  feelings.  He  was  not  glad  or  sorry  that  the  moment  had 
come  that  had  revealed  her  heart  to  him  and  to  herself;  he 
aid  not  feel  triumphant  or  alarmed ;  he  felt  nothing  but  a 
hot  passion  that  had  risen  above  thought  and  apprehension 
and  had  covered  everything. 

Dorla  did  not  look  at  him ;  you  might  have  thought  she 
did  not  remember  he  was  there.  With  one  hand  holding  the 
cloak  about  her  throat,  the  other  grasping  the  rail  of  the 
balcony,  she  sat  perfectly  still,  gazing  before  her  with  a 
strange  look  that  was  both  intent  and  vacant.  But  the 
hand  that  held  her  cloak  rose  and  fell  with  the  deep  breath 
she  drew. 

The  street  was  very  silent ;  the  village  all  asleep :  a  faint 
breeze  stirred  the  trees,  faint  sounds  of  the  music  from  the  ball- 
room came  up  to  them  where  they  were.  This  poor  young 
roman  had  unusual  power  to  suffer.  When  another  would 
lave  seen  only  Ler  love,  or  only  her  sin,  or  only  the  present, 
wie  saw  all,  past,  present  and  future — the  sin,  the  danger, 
the  hopelessness.  Her  imagination  was  so  intense  in  its 
power,  there  was  nothing  left  unlighted  by  it.  At  on* 


160  A  PERFECT  ADOm& 

instant  she  .was  hard  and  bitter  at  the  thought  of  the 
sacrifice  that  she  had  made  so  honestly  and  so  fatally ;  at 
another  she  was  thrilled  to  the  heart's  core  by  the  memory  of 
the  innocent  happiness  that  had  an  hour  ago  been  hers.  She 
was  going  back  into  her  childhood — one  moment — into  her 
bruised,  wounded,  unblest  days ;  at  another,  she  was 
reaching  forward  to  gaze  at  the  cruel  and  impossible  path 
that  lay  before  her  in  the  future.  There  was  a  great  cry 
of  reproach  to  Heaven,  mingled  with  many  cries  for  help. 
And  foremost,  and  before  all  other  things,  stood  the  horrible 
form  of  sin.  The  purity  of  her  nature,  the  whole  teaching  of 
her  life,  made  a  great  white  background  for  this  awful  shape. 
And  all  this  in  such  stunning  quick  succession.  It  was  such 
a  moment  since  she  had  been  happy  ;  it  was  such  an  abyss 
of  sin  and  sorrow  into  which  she  had  been  plunged.  More 
than  half  her  soul  was  conscience.  "  It  was  not  my  fault ! " 
she  cried  in  her  agony.  '•  O,  Save  me !  Save  me  !  How 
came  I  here?  How  can  I  get  out?  Kill  me  !  anything  to 
stop  this  pain — save  me  !  save  me  !  save  me  !  " 

She  was  a  coward  in  one  way ;  she  was  afraid  of  pain ; 
and  to  look  forward  to  suffering  set  her  brain  on  fire.  Felix 
could  not  see  all  this  on  her  ashy  face.  He  was  not  think- 
ing of  the  sin,  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  future  ;  his  whole 
soul  was  filled  with  her,  and  it  seemed,  without  the  help  of 
thought.  How  long  it  was  they  thus  were  there,  neither  of 
them  ever  knew ;  bye  and  bye  the  near  silence  and  the  dis- 
tant sounds  were  broken  by  the  approach  of  voices,  people 
speaking  as  people  speak  in  e very-day  life.  Dorla  started 
and  half  arose  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  awakened  from 
sleep.  Felix  moved  uneasily  and  turned  his  glance  from 
her  to  the  door  through  which  the  voices  came.  Presently 
two  persons  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  What  are  you  two  doing  here  by  yourselves  ?  "  cried 
Harriet,  shrilly.  And  then  Dorla  saw  George  beside  her. 
Bhe  got  up  quickly  and  went  to  his  side,  as  if  for  protec 
don. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  161 

"  I  do  not  feel  well,"  she  baid,  speaking  like  a  person 
roused  from  night-mare.  *l  I  want  you  to  take  me  home." 

"Nonsense,"  said  George,  who  seemed  unusually  ani- 
mated, "  no  one  is  going  yet.  They  want  a  German,  or  a 
reel,  or  something  to  wind  the  evening  up.  Every  one  is 
asking  for  you." 

"  Please  don't,  George,"  said  Dorla,  faintly,  while  Harriet 
exclaimed  above  her : 

"  It's  nonsense  to  talk  of  a  German,  of  course  ;  you  ought 
to  have  been  at  that  an  hour  ago,  if  you  had  wanted  it. 
But  we'd  better  all  go  down  and  have  a  Lancers,  or  something 
short,  and  let  it  be  understood  that  that's  the  end,  and  send 
the  music  off.  You're  very  thoughtless,  Felix ;  you  go  away 
and  leave  no  one  to  manage  anything." 

"Yes,  come,  that's  the  best  thing  to  do,"  said  George. 
"  Miss  Harriet  has  promised  to  dance  with  me,  and  we  want 
you  two  for  our  vis-a-vis." 

"I  really  don't  feel  well  enough,"  said  Dorla.  "The 
room  is  so  very  warm." 

"  O,  we've  had  several  more  windows  opened,  and  some  of 
the  people  have  gone,  and  it  is  very  cool  and  nice,"  said 
Harriet,  who  meant  to  have  her  way. 

"  But — I  will  sit  in  the  parlor  and  wait  for  you.  I  do 
not  think  I'd  better —  "  urged  Dorla,  with  a  last  effort. 

"  Why  don't  you  excuse  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  said  Felix,  in 
a  low  voice.  "  I  don't  think  she  feels  well  enough  to 
dance." 

The  color  rushed  in  a  great  flood  over  Dorla's  face.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  since  she  knew  the  full, 
full  truth.  Then  the  blood  went  back  again,  and  she  felt 
{aint  and  giddy.  "  Will  it  be  always  so  when  I  hear  his 
voice?"  she  thought,  in  that  cruel  anticipation  on  which 
her  mind  was  bent. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  you  know  it's  only  for  a  few  minutes, 
und  excitement  always  agrees  with  you,"  aaid  her  husband 
u  But  still  if  jou  are  not  really  able — " 


162  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS, 

"O,  come,  Dorla,  don't  be  sentimental,"  cried  Harriet, 
starting  forward.  "  You  can  generally  bear  as  much  as  any 
one,  if  you  want  to  do  it.  Come,  let  us  wind  up  this  pre- 
cious ball  respectably,  and  then  never  have  another." 

She  pushed  Dorla  before  her,  and  they  all  went  down  the 
stairs.  When  they  reached  the  ball-room  door,  Harriet  told 
Felix  to  go  and  tell  the  men  to  play  a  Lancers,  and  then  she 
and  George  went  in  the  room,  and  told  the  people  what  tc 
do,  leaving  Dorla  alone  in  the  entrance.  Mr.  Bishop  seeing 
her  look  very  pale,  came  and  took  her  to  a  seat,  and  talked 
to  her  till  the  music  began.  He  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing amiss,  but  he  was  a  good,  kind  man,  and  did  not 
speculate ;  and  being  unused  to  tragedy,  thought  it  likely 
Harriet  had  been  saying  something  disagreeable.  Harriet 
was  equal  to  anything  when  she  wasn't  pleased.  The  set 
was  forming,  and  Felix  came  up  and  said,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground — 

"  I  believe  we  are  to  dance."  Again  the  blood  swept 
over  her  face,  and  back  again  to  her  heart.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  no  one  saw  it,  but  Mrs.  Whymple  was  sitting  just  be- 
hind them.  Felix  offered  her  his  arm,  but  she  did  not  ap- 
pear to  see  it,  and  they  made  their  way  to  the  top  of  the 
room,  where  their  places  were.  The  dance  began.  Very 
soon  Felix  saw  his  companion  had  need  of  all  the  help  that 
he  could  give  her.  The  eyes  of  all  the  room  were  on  them ; 
the  people  sitting  en  spectateur  around  the  wall,  and  the 
dancers  in  the  set  before  them ;  and  Dorla  saw  and  felt  them 
all.  Her  poor  face  was  pale ;  the  blood  had  settled  in  great 
spots  about  her  throat  and  neck,  her  hand  shook,  and  her  eyes 
fell  before  the  gaze  that  met  her  on  every  side.  She  could 
not  command  herself  at  all ;  she  forgot  the  figures  in  the 
iance ;  she  forgot  to  try  even  to  speak  to  her  companion. 
"  This  way ;  you  are  to  go  over  there  now ;  see,  you  must 
fcake  Harriet's  hand."  This  was  all  the  sort  of  conversation 
thab  ho  attempted  with  her  in  that  ghastly  dance.  He  had 
but  one  though  b — that  she  would  swoon  beforo  them  all  ano 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

make  a  cruel  scene.  The  necessity  for  taking  care  of  iiei 
brought  him  to  his  senses,  as  perhaps  nothing  else  would 
have  done.  He  looked  round  upon  the  people  with  a  defi- 
ant, easy  air ;  he  chatted  with  his  neighbors  as  he  joined 
them  in  the  dance ;  he  even  asked  Miss  Whyople  for  & 
waltz,  when  the  set  was  over.  Bat  there  was  a  flush  upon 
his  cheek,  a  restlessness  in  his  eye,  a  constraint  in  his  man- 
ner, that  he  could  not  quite  conceal  from  those  that  looked 
upon  him  critically.  His  mother  knit  her  brows,  and 
divided  her  solicitude  between  his  affairs  and  a  pain  in  hei 
left  shoulder. 

"  Poor  lad,"  she  thought.  "  He  takes  it  a  little  hard. 
It's  a  miserable  complication.  She  needn't  have  married 
that  Rothermel  at  all.  But  maybe  he  wouldn't  have  cared 
for  her  if  she  hadn't."  Then  she  wondered  with  equal  ear- 
nestness if  that  pain  were  the  result  of  those  damp  rooms,  or 
if  these  late  hours  had  upset  her  digestion  in  some  degree. 
In  any  case  she  meant  reform,  and  should  apprise  Harriet 
and  Felix  to  be  ready  for  a  move,  if  in  a  day  or  two  she 
found  herself  no  better.  "  Health  comes  first,"  she  thought, 
"  and  I  shall  try  the  sea." 

"  What  on  earth's  the  matter  with  you,  Dorla  ?  "  cried 
Harriet,  screwing  up  her  eyes.  "One  would  think  you'd 
never  danced  a  Lancers  in  your  life." 

This  shocked  George,  who  heard  it,  quite  beyond  expres- 
sion, and  he  looked  anxiously  at  Dorla,  and  said  low, 
"  Pray,  look  what  you're  about.  You're  making  such  mis- 
takes, and  every  one  is  noticing." 

This  did  not  lessen  her  agitation.  It  seemed  to  her  this 
horrible  scene  was  to  be  gone  through  as  a  punishment  for 
the  vanity  and  joy  with  which  she  had  been  dancing  all  thf 
evening,  and  she  was  to  be  a  spectacle  now  because  she 
Uad  desired  to  be  admired  before.  She  need  not  have 
blamed  herself  so  much ;  it  is  hard  not  to  feel  some  pleasure 
when  every  one  is  gazing  after  you,  and  whispering,  "  What 
A  "Scanty  !  "  It  lies  all  back  o^  *hat;  not  to  put  on  voui 


164:  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

French  dresses,  and  not  to  go  to  places  where  there's  danc- 
ing and  temptation.  Finally,  the  set  was  over  ;  and  some- 
bow  she  got  her  husband's  arm,  and  made  him  take  her  from 
the  room.  He  wished  very  sincerely  he  hadn't  made  hei 
dance,  for  it  was  evident  that  she  hadn't  done  him  any 
credit.  He  left  her  with  Mrs.  Bishop,  while  he  went  to  see 
about  the  horses. 

11  You  poor  child  !  "  said  that  kind  lady,  putting  her  hand 
on  Dorla's.  "  You  looked  tired  to  death  ;  these  late  hours 
are  too  much  for  you."  Dorla's  voice  choked,  and  she  gave 
a  kind  of  low,  hysteric  sob,  as  she  clung  to  her  companion's 
hand  ;  the  voice  of  kindness  touched  her  so.  But  that  was 
soon  counteracted  by  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Whymple,  who 
pressed  up  to  her  side,  and  made  a  similar  remark.  Mrs. 
Bishop  answered  for  her,  and  managed  to  save  her  till  she 
could  command  herself.  Then  George  came,  and  she  went 
away  with  him,  saying  faint  goodnight s  to  both.  Felix 
went  down  to  the  carriage  with  her  cloak,  which  he  handed 
to  George,  but  he  did  not  go  any  nearer  her,  and  only  bowed 
to  them  as  they  drove  away. 

It  seemed  to  Dorla  that  they  drove  very  slow,  that  the 
carriage  was  close  and  hot ;  only  of  one  thing  she  could  not 
complain,  and  that  was  of  the  darkness.  George  was  full  of 
interest  in  the  events  of  the  evening ;  told  her  of  the  envy 
of  this  one,  of  the  admiration  of  that,  what  he  had  over- 
heard, what  had  been  said  to  him,  of  that  contretemps,  of 
this  success.  She  tried  to  listen  to  him,  and  to  make  some 
sort  of  answers.  At  last  they  were  at-home.  She  went  into 
the  house  and  up  the  stairs  before  him.  When  he  entered 
the  room,  she  was  tearing  off  the  ornaments  from  her  neck 
and  arms,  fiercely,  as  if  she  loathed  them.  He  caught  sight 
of  a  fracture  in  the  lowest  flounce  of  her  beautiful  dress^, 
and  stooped,  with  many  lamentations,  to  examine  it.  She 
almost  kicked  him  away  with  her  foot ;  at  least,  she  kicked 
die  flounce  away,  and  with  it  went  his  hand.  He  stepped 
hack,  looking  much  annoyed,  while  Dorla  flushed  deeply 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS 

Mid  said  in  a  softened  voice,  "I  b€g  your  pardon,  George, 
only  I  hate  the  dress  so.  You  can't  think  how  I  hate  it." 

Of  course,  George  entered  a  remonstrance,  and  then  she 
ceased  to  listen,  and  forgot  to  speak  to  him  till  she  did 
something  else  to  hurt  him,  and  had  to  be  humble  and  speak 
him  fair  again.  In  a  little  while  she  said,  pushing  her 
fswelry  away  into  the  box,  and  taking  a  candle  in  her  hand, 
while  her  pretty  dress  dragged  disarranged  about  her, 
u  My  head  aches  so,  George,  and  I  feel  so  restless,  I  am 
going  to  throw  myself  on  the  sofa  in  the  spare-room,  and 
sleep  there  to-night.  It  is  so  much  cooler  than  in  this 
room." 

"  Cooler !  "  cried  George.  "  Why,  it  is  cold  to-night.  I 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  of." 

When  she  was  fairly  in  the  room,  she  slid  the  bolt ;  she 
longed  to  barricade  the  door,  to  pile  the  furniture  before  it, 
to  make  sure  that  no  one  ever  could  get  in.  Then  she 
walked  restlessly  across  the  room  a  few  times,  pushed  up 
the  window  and  leaned  out  and  tried  to  get  some  relief  from 
the  fresh  cold  air.  But  though  the  night  was  grey  and  chill 
it  did  not  ease  the  pain  she  felt.  She  drew  back  and  pulled 
the  blinds  shut  after  her.  Then  with  a  sudden,  fierce,  IOTP 
cry  of  pain,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  sofa  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

There  is  no  use  in  analyzing  such  conflicts  as  these ;  it 
does  not  take  much  imagination  to  follow  one  so  placed 
through  all  the  windings  of  her  prison  house;  one  could 
hardly  suffer  more  and  be  alive.  She  thought  of  the  dread- 
ful time  when  the  news  of  George  Rothermel's  illness  had 
been  brought  to  her.  That  had  seemed  a  conflict,  but  it 
was  nothing  when  compared  to  this.  Then  the  bitter  days 
before  her  marriage,  when  she  was  resolving  on  the  SA  orifice. 
But  she  had  never  known  what  happiness  was,  and  the 
sacrifice  looked  small;  it  is  so  easy  to  resolve  to  live  for 
duty  when  you  do  not  know  what  pleasure  is.  She  had 
never  fancied  that  she  loved  any  one  before ;  had  not  wasted 


166  ^  PEBFEOT  ADONIS. 

her  lieait  in  tliat  miserable  plagiarism  of  true  pas«ion  that 
occupies  so  many  minds  in  youth.  The  full  sense  of  surren- 
der to  another,  the  perfect  satisfaction,  the  complete  feeling 
of  companionship — these  had  taken  possession  of  her  before 
she  dreamed  that  they  meant  love.  If  she  had  not  been  so 
pure  she  could  not  have  been  so  deceived ;  if  st.e  had  been 
looking  out  for  emblems  of  that  passion  of  which  so  many 
dream  incessantly,  she  would  not  have  been  at  a  loss  to  find 
them.  But  she  was  like  those  children  who  learn  their  les- 
son in  a  play.  The  play  was  over  ;  in  bewilderment  she 
finds  that  written  on  her  heart  which  all  time  cannot  efface. 

It  is  so  hard  to  be  just  to  yourself  in  moments  such  as 
these,  and  to  be  just  to  fate.  Dorla  was  apt  to  accuse  her- 
self, was  prone  to  think  her  own  wrong-doing  at  the  bottom 
of  every  trouble  j  she  tortured  herself  to  know  what  she 
had  done  to  bring  this  on  her.  She  looked  back  to  the 
moment,  sweeter  from  the  first  than  all  the  moments  that 
had  gone  before  in  all  her  life,  when  she  first  saw  Felix. 
8he  went  through  all  the  hours  that  they  had  spent  together, 
step  by  step ;  a  dangerous  retrospect,  if  she  had  not  been 
bent  on  self-accusation  and  remorse.  She  found  herself 
guilty  of  vanity,  of  misspending  her  time,  of  shortened 
hours  of  devotion,  of  too  much  pleasure  in  the  admiration 
excited  by  her  beauty ;  but  more  than  this,  even  she  could 
7iot  find. 

"  How  deadly  a  sin  vanity  must  be,"  she  thought,"  when 
it  can  bring  one  to  such  a  strait  as  this."  And  then  she 
could  not  help  contrasting  her  life  with  those  of  the  young 
women  who  surrounded  her.  It  did  not  require  much  im- 
agination or  much  presumption  to  find  them  fuller  of  such 
sins  than  hers.  "  But  that  is  not  my  business — perhaps 
God  means  to  help  me  to  a  higher  place,  through  all  thiu 
bitter  chastisement."  But  this  little  bit  of  saintly  wisdom 
did  not  at  all  comfort  poor  Dorla  in  her  pink  dress,  and 
with  her  fleshly  heart  all  wild  with  love  for  Felix.  The 
kouch  of  his  hand,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  was  more  to  hei 


A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

than  all  the  palms  and  crowns  of  heaven.  "Oh,  why  — 
why  I  "• — she  cried  with  incoherency,  going  back  to  the  prob 
lem  of  temptation.  "  T  would  have  been  good  without  it. 
I  meant  to  be  good  with  all  my  heart.  I  did  not  bring  him 
here.  I  never  asked  to  see  him.  I  had  not  a  thought  hut 
to  serve  God  and  to  be  a  faithful  wife  to  George."  It  ia 
very  hard  to  be  coherent  when  you  are  frantic  with  pain. 
The  next  moment  she  was  thinking  of  the  yellow  curl  of 
hair  in  the  locket  Harriet  had  lent  her.  She  longed  for  it — 
to  have  it  in  her  hands,  to  keep  it,  to  wear  it  ever.  "But 
I  must  never  touch  it.  1  must  never  even  look  at  it  again," 
she  moaned.  Then  she  thought  that  he  had  nothing  that  she. 
had  ever  given  him,  nothing  that  she  had  touched,  co  keep 
and  wear,  in  this  long  lifetime  of  separation  that  had  come. 
Yes,  there  was  a  rose  that  had  fallen  from  her  dress  to-night, 
that  he  had  claimed  and  kept.  Perhaps  at  that  moment  he 
had  it  in  his  hand,  had  held  it  to  his  lips ;  for  was  not  this 
hour  to  him  what  it  was  to  her  ?  She  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  as  she  felt  the  blood  rushing  through  her  veins 
with  the  bare  thought  of  this.  Then,  starting  up  witli 
shame  and  horror,  as  she  remembered  her  husband,  she  tore 
from  her  breast  the  sister  rose  that  •  clung  there  still,  and 
threw  it  from  her  with  a  sense  of  fear.  "  My  God ! "  she 
said,  kneeling  passionately  with  her  forehead  on  the  floor, 
"  let  me  die  if  this  cannot  end.  I  ask,  I  pray  to  die,  for 
there  is  not  any  other  end." 

Poor  child !  She  could  not  believe  that  any  other  way 
could  be  made  for  her  to  escape ;  it  is  difficult  to  have  faith 
when  temptation  is  upon  you. 

When  she  was  not  fighting  away  the  thought  of  thia 
inholy  love,  it  seemed  to  her  she  was  falling  into  the  sin  of 
cowardice,  of  want  of  trust  in  Heaven,  of  absolute  and  bias- 
pLemous  reproach.  She  thought  of  all  her  prayers,  of  the 
aours  upon  her  knees  in  church ;  of  all  her  supplica- 
tions to  be  guided,  that  had  resulted  in  her  marriage, 
tod  sh9  felt  her  heart  grow  hard.  Tnen  she  felt  her 


108  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

helplessness,  Iier  utter  ruin  if  she  lost  hei  faith,  and  ah« 
melted  into  tears  and  prayers  again.  But  in  all  the  tumuli 
of  thoughts  that  came  to  her,  this  thought  came  not :  namely, 
that  she  might  go  on  in  this  sin  in  ever  so  disguised  and 
subtle  a  form ;  that  she  might  be  George's  wife,  and  keep 
even  in  thought,  even  in  the  whispers  of  her  secret  heart, 
a  place  of  love  for  Felix.  This  thought  was  impossible  to 
her  ;  it  did  not  even  come  into  her  mind.  How  to  cast  out 
this  sin,  and  to  free  herself  forever  from  its  bondage,  was 
her  problem  and  her  prayer.  She  found  herself  caught, 
trapped,  in  a  deadly  snare;  as  she  writhed  in  the  sudden 
torture  her  whole  nature  concentrated  itself  in  the  effort  to 
escape.  If  she  could  have  blotted  Felix  out  from  her  mem- 
ory and  from  the  future,  she  would  have  done  it  eagerly. 

She  did  not  dally  with  the  thought  of  him ;  she  feared 
him  too  much  now  ;  she  feared  herself  too  much,  "  her  evil, 
evil  heart " — poor  child.  She  had  that  keen  and  terrible 
imagination  though,  that  taught  her  it  was  not  a  work  that 
could  be  done  in  one  moment,  at  one  will. 

"  I  shall  have  to  meet  him,  I  shall  have  to  hear  his  name. 
I  shall  have  to  feel  that  he  is  alive  and  walking  the  samo 
earth  with  me,  and  suffering  perhaps  the  same  misery  that 
I  do."  It  was  this  thought  that  she  found  herself  least  able 
to  endure  :  the  companionship  in  suffering.  It  always  ga^v  3 
her  the  same  thrill  and  rush  of  feeling  that  she  had  had 
when  she  first  thought  of  him  cherishing  the  rose  that  had 
fallen  from  her  breast.  "  I  must  pray  that  he  may  be  happy, 
and  that  he  may  marry  ;  maybe  it  would  help  me  if  he  did." 
But  a  long  space  lay  between  that  possibility  and  now. 

After  fancying  the  poignant  and  suffering  to -morrow,  after 
groping  blindly  in  the  blank  and  dreary  future  years,  sho 
came  back  pitifully  and  humbly  to  say  her  evening  prayer 
— her  evening  prayer,  while  the  dawn  was  struggling 
through  the  shutters,  and  the  birds  were  twittering  about 
the  vines  outside.  It  was  in  keeping  with  the  disarrange 
tnent  aud  discord  of  her  life,  ro  more  out  of  joint  and 


A  PERFEOT  ADOHI8.  169 

itrange  than  everything  looked  to  her  now.  She  got  *ap 
and  lit  another  candle  from  the  dressing-table  (for  the  one 
she  had  brought  in  with  her  had  long  since  burned  away 
without  her  notice),  and  kneeling  down  with  her  book  of 
devotion  in  her  hand,  she  said  the  prayers  that  she  always 
said  at  night.  This  was  the  room  to  which  she  always  came 
for  her  devotions,  for  it  was  seldom  used,  and  on  a  little- 
table  in  the  corner  stood  a  cross,  and  by  it,  her  books  of 
prayer.  She  was  worn  out  and  quieted  by  the  excess  and 
length  of  her  emotions ;  and  everything  she  did  now  seemed 
commonplace,  yet  strange,  by  the  comparison.  She  turned 
over  the  pages  of  her  book,  and  read  a  prayer  "  For 
Patience,"  and  then  one  "  In  Temptation,"  and  put  a  mark 
in  at  the  place,  with  a  humble  sigh,  knowing  this  must  be 
daily  praying  now.  Then  she  got  up  from  her  knees  and 
took  off  her  bright  dress,  and  putting  on  a  wrapper,  brought 
a  pillow  and  a  blanket  from  the  bed,  and  lay  down  on  the 
sofa,  putting  out  the  light.  She  felt  as  people  feel  who  have 
seen  their  dearest  die,  and  yet  live ;  and  who,  after  a  few 
hours  of  passion,  resume  the  dull  and  fettering  routine,  and 
go  despairing  on  again.  . 


| HE  next  day  Harriet  came  ;  and  the  next,  the  Bish- 
>ps  and  some  other  visitors  from  the  hotel,  but  all 
hey  heard  was  that  Mrs.  Rothermel  was  ill,  and  did 
not  leave  her  room.  And  on  the  third  day  Dorla  came 
down-stairs,  and  walked  strangely  and  dreamily  out  into  the 
open  air  again.  It  seemed  to  her  a  lifetime  since  the  night 
she  had  gone  panting  up  those  stairs  in  her  pink  dress,  with 
Buch  a  tumult  of  passion  in  her  heart.  Everything  seemed 
old  to  her,  old  and  worn  out.  Her  limbs  even  ached  and 
aiade  her  think  of  them,  as  she  moved  about.  Her  eyes  had 
A  sere,  dull  pain  in  them,  as  if  she  had  shed  all  the  tears  that 


170  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

a  woman  could  shed  while  she  lived.  Her  hands  and  feet 
were  cold,  and  she  pulled  a  cloak  about  her  shoulders,  which 
were  so  chilly  she  could  not  understand  the  brightness  of  the 
sunshine  and  the  softness  of  the  air.  She  looked  into  the 
parlor  and  wondered  vaguely  ho^  she  could  ever  have  seen 
anything  to  please  her  in  that  cheerless  and  uncolored  room. 
Ann  was  dusting  it,  and  putting  it  in  heartless  order.  She 
told  her  to  take  the  flowers  away,  for  they  were  faded ;  and 
no  flowers  after  that  went  into  those  empty  vases. 

Then  she  strayed  out  into  the  garden,  hoping  to  get  warm. 
The  flowers  that  she  had  loved  were  blooming  gorgeously 
along  the  path ;  but  she  did  not  put  out  her  hand  to  gather 
one.  She  saw  them,  but  they  gave  her  no  pleasure,  raised 
no  feeling  of  interest  in  her  mind.  She  passed  the  bed  of 
ferns  that  she  had  watched  and  sheltered  for  so  many  weeks. 
They  were  withering  and  parched  for  water,  but  she  did  not 
go  to  get  it,  or  send  any  one  to  bring  it  to  them,  as  it  was 
nothing  to  her  whether  they  died  or  lived.  All  things 
seemed  old  and  dull  and  lifeless.  She  had  been  patient 
when  George  caressed  her,  but  vaguely  glad  when  he  had 
gone  away ;  gentle  when  his  mother  busied  herself  by  un- 
necessary cares  about  her,  but  tired,  tired  of  everything. 
She  went  into  the  porch,  and  sat  down  awhile,  where  the 
sun  shone  on  the  step.  But  presently  she  heard  the  sound 
of  wheels,  and  that  gave  her  a  vague  sense  of  fright  and  she 
got  up  and  crawled  away,  down  among  the  trees  in  the 
orchard.  That  was  all  the  interest  she  seemed  to  have  left 
in  life,  to  hide  herself,  to  get  away  from  people. 

There  was  a  seat  in  the  orchard  under  one  of  the  old  trees. 
She  went  through  the  grass,  and  reached  it  and  sat  down. 
A  favorite  kitten  followed  her  and  sprang  into  her  lap. 
"  Poor  little  cat,"  she  said  and  took  it  in  her  hands,  more 
because  it  warmed  her  fingers  than  because  she  cared  about 
it.  The  day  was  beautiful,  soft  and  sunny;  it  gave  one  the 
sense  Df  the  full  bright  flood  of  the  summer  rushing  swiftly 
to  its  close ;  there  is  such  misery  in  being  out  of  harmonj 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  171 

irith  nat  ire ;  in  being  frozen  and  chilled  and  heartless  in  the 
midst  of  such  wealth  of  warmth  and  sunshine.  Presently 
the  kitten  saw  a  moth  fluttering  above  the  grass  and  leaped 
away  to  get  it,  making  a  pretty  play  in  her  pursuit.  Dorla's 
weary  eyes  followed  but  a  few  minutes  and  then  tired.  The 
orchard  was  at  the  very  foot  of  the  cliffs,  the  seat  at  the  edge 
of  the  cliffs  themselves ;  a  path  led  down  from  them  about  a 
stone's  throw  from  where  she  sat,  but  it  was  little  used, 
being  very  steep  and  rough.  It  was  not  long  before  she 
heard  a  stone  rattling  down  from  above,  and  then  another, 
then  steps  and  voices.  Some  one  was  coming  down  the  path, 
was  almost  upon  her.  She  rose  to  go,  then  sat  down  irreso- 
lutely. She  could  not  escape  except  by  running,  and  even 
then  must  be  seen.  And  she  really  felt  too  weak  to  walk. 
Besides  it  was  not  likely  to  be  any  one  she  knew ;  some  stran- 
ger perhaps,  who  had  been  at  the  Peak,  and  had  stumbled 
upon  this  path  and  followed  it  down,  only  knowing  that  it 
would  lead  him  to  the  valley.  It  was  not  likely  to  be  any 
of  the  hotel  people,  any  of  those  who  knew  about  her,  for 
they  were  all  gone  to-day,  according  to  George's  report,  on  a 
distant  expedition,  from  which  they  could  not  return  till 
night-fall.  George  had  wanted  to  go  himself,  had  bewailed 
her  illness,  and  seemed  to  be  really  disappointed.  His  inter- 
est and  pleasure  in  the  small  gayeties  of  the  place  were  on  the 
increase.  lie  could  not  talk  of  anything  else,  and  was  al- 
most boyish  in  his  gossip.  "  I  want  you  to  get  well,  Dorla, 
and  we  will  have  a  fete.  They  are  all  expecting  something, 
and  we  must  make  the  effort."  He  was  so  much  more 
endurable  when  he  was  quiet  and  grave.  Dorla  wished 
Harriet  would  leave  him  alone,  and  not  get  him  wild  about 
society.  It  made  him  seem  so  small  and  so  provincial. 

The  steps  approached  rapidly ;  the  voices  were  those  of 
men;  in  a  moment  she  recognized  George's,  and  sat  dowp 
quieted,  for  she  had  a  second  time  arisen  to  get  away.  "  J 
thought  he  went  to  the  village,"  she  thought  languidly,  and 
iid  not  even  turn  her  head. 


172  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Why,  Dorla,  are  you  here,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  her 
She  turned  as  he  spoke  and  looked  up.  With  him  waa 
Felix  Varian.  She  got  upon  her  feet,  somehow,  and  her 
thought  was  flight.  Impotent,  silly  thought.  She  grew  very 
white  again  and  sat  down,  not  having  opened  her  lips  to 
speak,  nor  having  looked  a  second  time  at  him. 

"  You're  ill  again,"  said  George,  in  a  disappointed,  almost 
a  vexed,  voice.  "  I  thought  you  were  really  better  when  I 
left  you.  I've  been  promising  for  you  that  we'd  go  to  Brink 
Pond  to-morrow.  Here  is  Mr.  Varian." 

f(  Yes,"  said  Dorla,  and  she  panted  as  if  she  could  not  get 
her  breath,  looking  down  upon  the  grass  below  them.  He 
stood  before  her  with  a  deprecating,  humbled,  almost  penitent 
look,  that  was  mixed  with  an  expression  of  alarm  and  dis- 
tress at  her  appearance. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Varian  in  the  village,"  continued  George,  not 
at  all  abashed  by  Felix  in  these  times,  for  he  did  not  look 
anything  of  a  swell,  "  and  we  concluded  we'd  take  a  stroll 
across  the  cliffs,  and  get  our  guns  and  go  off  for  the  day  into 
the  woods." 

"I  am  afraid  we  frightened  you,  coming  down  so  sud- 
denly," said  Felix,  when  he  could  command  his  voice,  for  he 
was,  in  his  way,  as  agitated  as  poor  weak  Dorla  was  in  hers. 
Satisfied  and  small-soul  ed  George  went  on  and  filled  up  all 
the  gap  with  his  discourse.  He  told  Dorla  how  he  had  found 
Felix  wandering  about  alone,  having  refused  to  go  on  the 
excursion,  and  by  what  steps  they  had  been  led  to  settle  on 
the  gunning  expedition.  It  was  plain  he  was  a  little  elated 
with  having  Felix  as  his  guest  and  companion  for  the  day. 

"  And  now  sit  down,"  he  said,  motioning  him  to  the  seat 
by  Dorla,  "  while  I  go  on  to  the  house  and  get  the  guns. 
For  I'm  sorry  to  tell  you,  we've  got  to  go  up  that  path  again ; 
it's  the  shortest  way  into  the  woods." 

"  I  don't  mind  the  climb  at  all,"  said  Felix,  sitting  down, 
for  what  else  could  he  do :  "  but  I  am  afraid  \ve  are  disturb- 
ing Mrs.  Kothermel." 


A  PmPECT  ADONIS.  178 

"  O,  no,  we're  not,"  said  George,  comfortably.  "  She'» 
rery  glad  to  have  somebody  to  talk  to  ;  aren't  you,  Dorla  ? — 
I  won' t  be  gone  five  minutes — "  and  away  he  started  for  the 
house. 

Dorla's  very  hands,  as  they  lay  helpless  on  her  lap,  were 
tinted  with  the  crimson  that  had  spread  over  her  face  and 
throat.  Felix  could  hardly  look  at  her  ;  he  had  no  etfrontery 
now;  but  he  knew  that  she  had  turned  from  pallid  wnite  to 
red,  and  that  her  breath  was  quick,  and  her  lips  parted. 
She  was  turned  a  little  from  him,  as  she  had  been  sitting 
when  he  came,  but  she  did  not  move  an  inch,  did  not  stir, 
except  as  her  breath  came  and  went.  He  could  hear  the 
rustle  of  the  silk  lining  of  her  cloak  against  the  back  of  the 
seat  on  which  she  leaned,  as  these  heavy,  quick  breaths  came. 
It  was  a  sound  almost  imperceptible  to  the  sense  ;  but  Felix 
heard,  and  felt  it,  even  though  his  own  pulses  were  rushing, 
and  his  hand  unsteady.  There  was  such  a  silence.  Felix 
tried  to  speak,  but  his  voice  would  not  clear  itself ;  he  sat 
looking  before  him,  his  straw  hat  in  his  lap,  and  in  his  hand 
a  stem  or  two  of  wheat  that  he  had  pulled  up  in  some  field 
that  they  were  passing.  In  the  grass  at  their  feet  played 
the  kitten ;  she  caught  sight  of  the  yellow  wheat  moving 
slightly  in  his  haod,  and  she  jumped  at  it,  and  fell,  and 
jumped  again.  He  stooped  and  put  his  hand  upon  her, 
stroked  her,  and  lifted  her  up  to  his  knee. 

"  Poor  little  cat,"  he  said,  unsteadily ;  and  then  he  found 
his  voice.  Three  minutes  of  the  five  that  George  had  said 
he  would  be  gone,  had  passed  ;  and  he  had  not  forgotten  it. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  not  well,"  he  said,  and  then  he 
looked  at  her  for  an  instant.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  ground  ; 
she  seemed  to  try  to  speak  and  failed,  and  then  she  said,  not 
unlike  herself,  but  with  agitation  : 

"  It  is  nothing ;  I  think  1  am  quite  well." 

11 1  wanted  to  know — Harriet  could  not  see  you — that 
"nade  me  think  you  might  be  really  ill — things  always  seen 
*oree  T»hen  YOU  cannot  hear  the  truth  about  them—-" 


174:  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

This  was  incoherent,  but  Dorla  understood  it  well  enough, 
only  too  well.  The  kitten  struggled  out  of  his  grasp  and 
sprang  down  and  gambolled  about  the  grass,  then  came  back 
to  his  feet,  and  rubbed  herself  against  them  to  attract  hii 
notice.  He  stooped  down  and  stroked  her,  and  said, 
without  changing  his  attitude,  as  he  continued  absently  to 
fondle  her.  "  I  am  afraid  you  had  got  over -tired ;  I've  been 
ashamed  of  myself  for  being  so  thoughtless;  but  I  hope 
you're  not  going  to  be — any  the  worse  for  it — any  time." 

"  No,"  said  Dorla,  almost  steadily,  as  she  drew  a  quick 
breath,  and  looked  away  over  the  wide,  sunny  fields.  "  I 
hope  I  shall  not  be ;  but  I  am  not  very  strong,  somehow, 
and  I  must  be  more  quiet.  I  am  going  to  be." 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  glancing  half  frightened  at  her,  for 
there  was  a  depth  of  resolution  in  her  tone,  of  which  she 
was  unconscious.  u  But  it  is  good  for  you  to  be  in  the  open 
air.  You  surely  are  not  going  to  shut  yourself  up  in  that — 
house." 

"  No — I  always  am  a  great  deal  out  of  doors,  but  I  can- 
not go  on  excursions  and  such  things — and  I  hope  that — 
George — that  Mr.  Rothermel — will  not  promise  for  me  that 
I  will,  for  I  cannot  go.  Indeed  I  am  not  strong  enough. 
And  I  hope  they  will  not  be  sending  down  for  me."  This 
she  said  hurriedly  and  almost  inaudibly. 

"  I  will  not  let  Harriet  bother  you  any  more,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  tone.  "  But  I  am  very  sorry.  I  shall  miss — that  is 
— I  mean — it  was  very  pleasant  all  those  days — " 

That  terrible  scourge  of  blood  flamed  again  all  over  poor 
Dorla's  face  and  throat ;  and  a  deep  dark  flush  mounted  to 
her  companion's  very  brow,  and  suffocated  his  voice.  Not 
another  word  was  said,  and  it  was  several  minutes  before 
George  came  back  from  the  house ;  unsuspecting,  poor  small 
soul,  the  demon  that  his  absence  had  called  up.  He  wa& 
not  very  quick  in  reading  faces,  and  he  saw  nothing  in  those 
before  him  to  excite  unusual  interest.  Dorla  indeed,  made 
i  movement  as  if  relieved  and  glad  to  have  him  come.  But 


A  PERFECT  ADON13.  175 

lhat  was  no  more  than  was  natural,  surely.  She  got  up  a* 
he  approached  with  the  guns  in  his  hand,  and  so  did  Felix. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  Yarian,  I've  told  them  to  bring 
as  out  some  sherry  and  a  biscuit,  for  we  won't  get  back  to 
dinner  at  the  ordinary  time." 

"  I  will  go  in  and  see  about  it,"  said  Dor  la,  faintly,  turn 
ing  towards  the  house. 

"  No,  no,  stay,"  he  said,  pointing  to  her  seat.  "  Stay  and 
see  us  off.  Mother  is  attending  to  it.  There's  nothing  you 
can  do." 

"  But  I  was  going  into  the  house  anyway,"  said  Dorla, 
hurriedly.  "  I  am  feeling  tired — good-bye."  She  tried  to 
glance  back  at  both  of  them  as  she  said  this,  but  her  eyes 
never  reached  beyond  the  level  of  the  seat  on  which  they 
had  been  sitting,  and  she  looked  so  faint  and  giddy  and  her 
movement  was  so  unsteady,  that  Felix  could  not  help  start- 
ing forward  as  if  to  offer  her  his  arm.  Then  he  drew  back 
and  half  turned  away. 

George  said,  "  Don't  you  feel  well,  Dorla  ?  Shan't  I  go 
in  with  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  already  several  steps  away ; 
and  George,  for  the  moment  much  more  interested  in  his 
guns  and  in  his  guest,  began  to  talk  about  them. 

if  This  is  a  Man  ton  that  my  father  had  when  he  was  a 
young  man ;  and  this  is  a  gun  I  bought  before  I  went  to 
college,  both  fair  pieces  in  their  way.  You  must  take  your 
choice.  I'm  sorry  we  haven't  any  better." 

George  felt  very  conscious  of  the  importance  of  the  fact 
that  his  father  had  had  a  Manton,  and  that  he  had  been  to 
sollege,  and  he  could  not  be  expected  to  know  that  Felix 
was  not  listening  to  him,  but  was  watching  covertly  the 
progress  of  Dorla  to  the  house.  On  her  way  she  passed  the 
servant  carrying  the  tray  of  luncheon ;  to  which  she  did  not 
Beem  to  give  a  glance,  and  Felix  saw  her  disappear  into  the 
house.  Then  he  wished  the  guns  and  tho  luncheon  and  the 
lost  at  the  bottom  of  tho  sea,  and  raged  inwardly  at  the  bon- 


176  ^  PERFECT  ADON18. 

dage  he  was  in  to  them.  But  soon  he  reflected  it  was  part 
of  the  matter  that  he  should  come  back  there  to  dinner,  and 
so  he  managed  to  be  as  "  mild  mannered  a  gentleman  "  as 
was  befitting  and  was  wise. 

At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  old  Mrs.  Rothermel  came 
bustling  into  Dorla's  room  (a  faint  bustle  to  be  sure,  for  she 
was  always  gentle  and  unoffending),  and  said,  "  Come,  my 
dear,  they  have  got  back,  and  the  dinner  is  going  on  the 
table,  and  George  is  asking  for  you." 

"  I  can't  go  down,  dear  mother,  really  I  cannot.  Make 
some  excuse  for  me  to  George." 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear,  it  will — hurt  his  feelings  if  you  don't. 
He  seemed  to  think  it  odd  you  weren't  down  looking  out 
for  them." 

"  He  has  forgotten  that  I  am  not  well.  Say  that  to  him  ; 
and  that  I  am  lying  down  to  rest."  ^ 

"  He's  so  afraid  of  offending  this  young  gentleman,"  said 
the  mother,  doubtfully. 

"  He  needn't  be  afraid,"  returned  Dorla,  turning  her 
scornful  face  down  on*the  pillow  for  an  instant,  then  raising 
it,  kissed  her  mother-in-law.  "  You  know  I  would,  if  it  were 
possible,  dear  mother.  Tell  George  so,  if  he  asks  about  me." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  expect  me  to  be  at  the  table  with 
them  ?  "  asked  the  mother,  hesitatingly,  still  in  awe  of  the 
city  people  when  called  upon  to  meet  them. 

"No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  Dorla.  "They  know 
we've  had  our  dinner  hours  ago.  Only  see  that  Ann  takes 
them  everything  in  order." 

"Oi  I'll  see  to  that,"  said  the  mother.  "Everything 
is  very  nice;  but  I  never  know  about  city  people's  ways." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Dorla.  "  Your  ways  are  good 
enough  for  any  one." 

Then  the  mother,  comforted,  went  down  stairs,  and  Dorla 
heard  her  going  softly  to  the  dining-room  to  make  sure  that 
nothing  was  out  of  order  or  wanting  to  the  comfort  of  het 
beloved  George.  The  dinner  at  which  she  had  been  at  work 


A  PELFECT  ADONIS.  177 

for  hours,  WAS  going  hot  on  the  daintily  spread  table ;  and 
soon  Dorla  heard  George  and  Felix  enter  the  room.  She 
got  up  and  crept  to  the  door,  and  shut  it ;  she  did  not  want 
to  hear,  nor  to  remember  who  was  in  the  house.  She  went 
back  to  the  bed,  and  lay  down,  and  tried  to  read  Scupoli'a 
book.  It  had  been  dear  to  her,  and  sacred  in  the  times  past, 
but  now  it  failed  to  touch  or  reach  her.  She  turned  back 
to  the  little  memoir  in  the  front  of  it,  and  read  that ;  and 
something  in  it  swelled  her  heart  with  something  like  feeling. 
She  thought  of  that  dear  servant  of  God,'  in  his  frightful 
combat  of  twenty-five  years'  length,  and  of  the  reality  of 
his  victory,  and  of  the  patience  with  which  he  had  lain 
down  beneath  the  rod,  and  given  up  all  earthly  hope  and  com- 
fort. Here  was  something  tangible  ;  what  seemed  so  impos- 
sible  to  her  had  been  done. 

"  This  is  what  I  must  do — I  must  read  people's  lives  that 
nave  conquered ;  I  am  too  hungry  and  wild  to  bear  with 
maxims  and  sentiments ;  I  must  see  what  has  been  done." 
And  sitting  up,  with  eager,  feverish  hand,  she  wrote  out  a 
list  of  books  that  she  meant  to  read.  Some  she  had,  and 
some  she  meant  to  send  for.  She  wrote  the  letter  ordering 
them ;  then  searched  for  the  ones  she  had ;  then  went  back 
to  the  bed,  and  at  last,  tired  out  by  the  effort,  fell  asleep  for 
a  little  while. 

When  she  waked,  it  was  almost  twilight ;  she  started  up, 
uncertain  of  the  hour  and  place ;  she  went  to  the  window ; 
a  sound  of  voices  on  the  porch  below,  and  the  scent  of  cigars, 
told  her  that  Felix  was  not  yet  gone,  and  that  she  had  not 
out-slept  temptation.  Then  she  went  away,  and  threw  her- 
self upon  her  knees,  and  wept  and  wondered  when  it  would 
ever,  ever  end.  Bye  and  bye  her  mother-in-law  came  upf 
and  Dorla  clung  to  her  almost  piteously  in  her  loneliness. 
She  longed  so  to  speak  to  some  one ;  she  was  one  who  could 
have  really  lightened  her  burden  by  speech.  But  here  was 
the  kindest,  tenderest  soul,  and  she  must  never  ask  her  to 
pity  her,  and  must  never  let  her  know  what  she  endured. 


178  A  PERFECI  ADONIS. 

*'  Stay  ap  here  a  little  while,"  she  said,  for  she  was  grow* 
ing  afraid  of  herself,  "and  let  us  talk  a  little,  I'm  so 
lonely." 

"  My  dear !  "  said  the  mother,  with  solicitude,  "  I've  been 
wanting  to  come  up,  but  I  was  afraid  of  troubling  you.  I 
thought  you  wanted  to  be  alone." 

"  I  don't  want  to,  now,"  said  Dorla,  restlessly.  f(  It's  so 
weary  to  think  the  same  things  all  day  long.  Let's  talk 
about  what  we're  going  to  do.  Mother,  I  want  to  tell  you 
something.  I  feel  I  shall  be  happier  if  I  have  something  to 
do.  I  want  you  to  teach  me  to  do  something  useful,  to  be 
busy  in  the  house.  You  see  it  is  my  duty." 

"  O,  my  dear !  You  are  not  fit  to  do  this  sort  of  thing. 
You  had  better  leave  all  that  to  me.  You  know  I  can't  da 
anything  better." 

"  Nor  can  I,"  said  Dorla.  "  I  am  of  no  use  to  any  one 
in  the  world,  and  am  a  torment  to  myself.  O,  don't  say  no 
to  that ;  you  don't  know.  But  I  am  going  to  learn  to  be  use- 
ful. You  shall  teach  me  to  cook  things.  Let  me  see.  To- 
morrow morning  we'll  begin.  You'll  show  me  after  break- 
fast, just  how,  to  the  very  least  thing,  you  get  every  thing 
made  for  dinner,  and  I'm  going  to  have  a  blank  book — I'll 
take  my  new  journal — I'm  never  going  to  use  it  any  more — 
and  write  down  everything.  Yes — and  we'll  look  over  the 
towels,  and  sheets,  and  all  the  linen — and  make  lists.  It's 
very  good  to  have  lists,  isn't  it?  I  think  I've  heard  it 
was." 

"  I  never  had  any,"  said  Mrs.  Rothermel,  meekly.  "  I 
always  remembered." 

"  O,  I  am  sure  I  couldn't,  and  now  I'm  going  to  helj; 
about  the  housekeeping;  don't  you  think  it  would  be 
better  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  would,"  Mrs.  Kothermel  said,  with  a  little 
»igh,  very  much  bewildered. 

"  Then  we  vill    have    regular    sets    of   everything,  and 
them  out  just  so  often.     And  don't  you  want  me  to 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  179 

keep  the  accounts  for  you,  mother?  I  could  do  that, you 
know," 

"  O,  my  dear,  George  does  that ;  he  always  has  done  it 
lince  his  father  died." 

"  But  I  could  relieve  him,  maybe." 

"  He  likes  it,  my  dear ;  I  think  it  would  trouble  him 
to  give  it  up,  and  he  hasn't  very  much  to  do,  you  know." 

Dorla  sighed;  she  did  not  see  that  she  was  very  much 
needed  in  the  household,  but  she  determined  to  keep  up 
her  effort,  and  talked  and  made  plans  till  her  mother, 
poor  lady,  was  much  oppressed  by  it.  All  this  time  she 
was  trying  not  to  hear  the  voices  in  the  porch  below  : 
trying  not  to  think  that  Felix  was  watching  for  her. 
When  at  last  she  heard  the  gate  shut,  and  knew  that  he 
was  gone,  the  relief  was  so  great  she  could  have  cried. 
She  had  felt  his  nearness,  and  had  held  herself  in  such 
sharp  tension,  it  was  like  resting  after  suffering. 

The  next  morning  she  went  about  her  plan  of  work. 
But,  poor  child,  she  had  not  much  heart  in  it.  She  was 
so  weary,  and  alas,  so  easily  irritated.  It  seemed  to  her 
she  hated  all  who  came  near  her,  even  her  dear,  old 
mother.  The  details  of  her  work  were  endless ;  she  had  never 
dreamed  there  were  so  many  steps  to  be  taken,  so  much 
work  to  be  done  about  one  paltry,  simple,  country  meal. 
Six  things  to  be  remembered  about  making  an  insignifi- 
cant custard,  and  ten,  twenty,  about  stuffing  and  roasting 
a  pair  of  fowls.  And  all  the  time  her  mother  looked 
troubled,  and  the  servants  were  quite  thrown  out  of  their 
course,  and  she  knew  she  was  very  much  in  the  way.  But 
shs  ]«rsevered  for  several  hours,  and  wrote  down  all  the 
\  ainteresting  details  in  her  memorandum  book,  and  made 
her  head  ache  cruelly.  She  went  to  bed,  and  of  course,  could 
aot  eat  any  of  the  dinner,  and  it  was  so  much  less  good  than 
usual,  owing  to  the  many  cooks,  that  George  was  a  little 
>ut  of  temper. 

In  +he  afternoon,  he  took  her  to  drive ;    when  they  go< 


180  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

back,  Tim  told  him  Mr.  Yarian  had  been  there  to  take  him 
out  with  his  "  fast  horse."  Tim  thought  it  a  great  pity  he 
was  out ;  he  shared  in  George's  admiration  for  the  fast  horse 
and  Mr.  Varian.  Felix  had  given  him  some  money,  and 
Tim  was  not  accustomed  to  the  gifts  of  fortune.  In  the 
evening,  George  went  to  the  village,  not  quite  reconciled  to 
the  idea  that  Dorla  was  not  well  enough  to  go.  He  came 
back  in  high  spirits,  having  evidently  been  patted  on  the 
back  by  the  gay  people,  and  full  of  messages  for  Doria, 
inquiries  and  regrets.  He  was  replete  with  gossip  and  plans 
of  gaiety. 

"  Really,  Dorla,  you  must  exert  yourself  a  little ;  we're 
falling  all  behind,  my  dear.  You  know  you're  always  better 
for  excitement.  All  you  want  is  the  energy  to  make  the 
effort.  I  never  saw  you  look  better  than  you  did  last  week, 
and  you  kept  going  all  the  time." 

He  had  made  an  engagement  to  go  out  with  Yarian  gun- 
ning in  the  morning  ;  Yarian  would  be  down  at  nine  o'clock, 
and  they  would  be  back  to  dinner,  probably,  at  four. 
George  was  talking,  as  he  pulled  off  his  boots,  about  what 
had  better  be  made  for  dinner,  as  if  it  was  a  very  important 
matter. 

"  Something  better  than  we  had  to-day,  I  hope,"  he  said. 
"  I'd  never  hold  up  my  head  again,  if  Yarian  chanced  on 
such  a  wretched  failure." 

In  the  morning  Dorla  did  not  get  up,  and  had  a  cup  of 
tea  brought  to  her  room.  The  two  men  went  away  at  half- 
past  nine ;  she  heard  all  the  preparations,  all  the  talking  in 
the  hall  below ;  for  everything  was  so  still  about  the  place, 
and  the  door  would  not  keep  out  the  sound.  After  they  had 
gone,  she  got  up  and  dressed,  and  went  down  to  her  weary 
lesson  in  the  kitchen.  This  time  she  only  looked  on,  and 
did  not  ask  to  give  any  practical  assistance.  At  one  o'clock 
she  had  a  light  dinner  with  her  mother-in-law,  the  strength 
of  the  kitchen  being  reserved  for  the  four  o'clock  repast,  and 
it  half-past  three,  according  to  a  plan  she  had  formed  the 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  1S1 

bight  before,  she  got  into  the  pony-carriage,  and  Irove  her- 
self towards  Dingman's.  George's  last  commanc  had  been 
that  they  should  be  ready  for  him  at  four.  Mrs.  Rothermel 
looked  doubtful  and  unhappy  at  Dorla's  going  out,  but  that 
could  not  be  helped.  She  should  make  the  best  of  it  to 
George,  but  the  could  not  think  what  it  all  meant.  To  be 
sure  Dorla  was  going  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  so  to  speak  t 
but  why  she  should  not  nave  cnosen  some  other  day  and 
hour  troubled  her  extremely. 

Dorla  got  into  the  little  carriage,  shaking  all  over  wi«h 
fear.  She  was  a  coward,  and  she  had  no  confidence  in 
Jenny.  Her  lips  were  white,  and  her  hands  and  feet  were 
cold.  She  longed  to  take  Tim  at  the  last  moment ;  but  Tim 
had  orders  from  George  to  be  "  on  hand  "  at  four  o'clock, 
and  besides  the  carriage  held  but  two,  and  her  present  busi- 
ness was  to  take  a  sick  girl  out  to  drive.  "  If  I  break  her 
neck  it  will  be  doubtful  charity,"  thought  Dorla,  as  she 
started  down  the  hill,  hardly  seeing  the  way  before  her  for  her 
dazzled  fear.  But  Jenny  went  very  soberly,  and  before  she 
reached  the  small  house  by  the  roadside,  where  the  girl  Jived, 
she  felt  more  steady  in  nerve. 

This  girl  was  the  only  object  of  charity  poor  Dorla  could 
find  in  all  the  country.  She  had  been  faithful  in  her  visits 
to  her,  rather  over-doing  the  matter  in  fact ;  but  what  are 
people  to  do  when  the  poor  appear  to  have  ceased  out  of  the 
land  ?  Nobody  wanted  anything  ;  it  was  very  hard  on  her. 
She  was  very  glad  there  were  so  many  ferns  ;  but  she  would 
have  liked  a  few  poor  people.  These  were  her  reflections 
when  she  was  first  acquainting  herself  with  her  new  home. 
Melvina,  as  a  sole  object  of  her  sympathy,  was  miserably  un- 
interesting. She  was  very  ill  to  be  sure,  but  very  wearisome 
in  talking  of  her  illness,  very  selfish,  and  possessing  no  fine 
feelings.  She  would  not  read  the  good  little  books  Dorla 
brought  her,  but  preferred  illustrated  papers  and  very  com- 
mon ones  at  that.  She  did  not  appreciate  the  bouquet* 
Dorla  made  for  her,  and  would  eat  things  that  were  very  in- 


182  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

digestible.  She  did  not  dare  to  sing  her  hymns,  for  some  of 
the  family  were  always  in  the  room,  and  were  very  unde- 
votional.  She  finally  gave  up  all  attempts  upon  her  soul, 
and  confined  herself  to  bringing  her  good  things  to  eat,  and 
taking  her  out  to  drive  occasionally.  This  drive  was  a  long 
promised  and  important  one ;  many  times  it  had  been  planned 
but  the  invalid  had  not  been  well  enough  to  go.  To-day 
was  one  of  her  good  days,  and  she  had  sent  word  by  the  mes- 
senger that  she  would  be  ready.  They  were  to  go  to  Ding- 
man's,  cross  the  ferry,  and  spend  the  afternoon  at  the  house 
of  a  married  sister  of  the  girl's  in  "  Jersey,"  returning  before 
evening. 

It  was  quite  an  event  in  the  family  ;  poor  Melvina  had  not 
been  to  her  sister's  in  two  years,  and  would  in  all  probability 
never  go  again.  She  was  feverishly  excited  (and  rather 
cross)  when  Dorla  drove  up  to  the  door.  Her  sharp- voiced 
mother,  and  her  idle  half-grown  brothers  and  sisters  shared 
in  the  excitement  and  the  crossness.  They  did  not  treat 
Dorla  with  any  particular  courtesy  or  respect,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Americans  on  their  native  heath,  and  she  always  felt 
much  abashed  in  their  presence  and  not  at  all  comfortable. 
She  was  very  glad  to  get  away. 

"  Now,  Melvina,  we  are  going  to  have  a  nice  time,"  she 
said,  cheerfully,  as  they  started  off. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  girl,  ungraciously. 
"  If  the  sun  comes  out  hot,  it's  sure  to  make  my  head  ache 
awful ;  and  I  never  liked  those  ferries." 

Dorla  laughed ;  Melvina  must  have  such  a  funny  code  of 
manners,  it  amused  her  to  think  of  persons  who  could  as  a 
rule,  say  such  things  to  those  who  were  bestowing  favors  on 
them.  It  grew  rather  tiresome  after  awhile,  but  there  was, 
amid  her  fretfulness  and  the  trouble  occasioned  by  her  really 
luffering  state,  an  occasional  touch  of  pathos  in  her  eager  in- 
terest in  some  land-mark,  familiar  and  forgotten  by  those 
that  passed  it  every  day,  in  her  evident  strangeness  to  these 
scenes  immediately  surrounding  her  poor  home.  For  three 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  183 

jrears  she  bad  been  bound  to  a  be  I  of  pain,  in  that  wi-etched 
place,  and  had  forgotten  many  details  in  all  that  weary  time  j 
how  wide  the  river  was  at  one  point,  how  "scant"  the 
brook  seemed  as  they  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Conne- 
shaugh,  how  close  the  trees  grew  to  the  road.  It  gave  Dorla 
a  pang  to  think  this  was,  with  scarcely  a  doubt,  the  last 
earthly  journey  that  the  poor  soul  would  ever  go,  and  so 
unready  for  the  unearthly  one,  alas.  In  her  present  state 
of  feeling,  Dorla  could  not  think  with  sorrow  of  going,  ii 
only  one  were  ready ;  a  bitter  tangled  conflict,  she  was  sick 
with  fear  of  its  results. 

When  they  reached  the  river,  and  crossed  on  the  rope 
ferry,  she  had  to  master  her  fears  and  stand  by  the  horse's 
head,  for  poor  Melvina  was  aghast  at  all  the  perils  of  the 
way,  and  wished  herself  home,  without  reserve.  Jenny  wa* 
much  quieter  than  usual,  and  the  duty  of  extending  protec- 
tion to  Melvina  had  in  some  way  strengthened  her  nerves ;  she 
was  quite  assured. 

"  Now  that  was  not  so  bad,"  she  said,  as  they  drove  up 
the  green  bank  under  the  trees.  "  No  accident  ever  has 
happened  there,  and  you  won't  mind,  going  back,  I'm  sure." 
Melvina  wasn't  sure  and  said  so.  The  road  was  very  heavy, 
and  the  sun  was  very  hot,  but  in  the  course  of  twenty  minutes, 
they  reached  the  farm  house  where  the  sister  lived,  and 
were  made  duly  welcome  by  an  irregular  battalion  of  un- 
combed children  and  a  yellow  dog.  Before  Melvina  was 
out  of  the  carriage,  the  sister  appeared,  a  hollow-chested, 
beavy-eyed,  yellow-skinned  woman,  *  who  was  thirty,  and 
looked  forty-five.  She  devoted  her  life  to  the  making  of  un- 
wholesome pastry,  and  the  copying  of  patten  s  out  of  fash 
ion  books,  so  that  the  lean  kine  who  called  her  mother 
aiight  go  to  the  white  meeting-house  on  the  hill  once  a  week, 
clothed  with  merino  intricately  braided,  with  Marabout 
fathers  in  their  hats,  and  their  stomachs  filled  with  buck* 
tvheat  cakes  and  doughnuts. 

The  children,  in  all  stages  of  sbabbiness,  stood  around,  and 


184  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

distracted  their  mother's  attention  from  the  poor  sufferer; 
she  could  do  nothing  but  apologize.  They  went  into  the 
house,  into  a  wretched,  damp,  shut  up  "best  room," 

"  O,  don't,"  said  poor  Melvina,  with  a  shudder.    "  Let's 
go  into  the  sittin'  room  ;  she  ain't  one  that  minds." 

Dorla  urged  this,  and  they  went  into  the  familiar  well-used 
and  not  over-tidy  room,  where  the  sewing  machine  stood,  at 
which  the  poor  mother  wore  her  life  out  in  the  manufacture 
of  spurious  finery  for  her  ill-taught  children.  Then  Dorla,  to 
leave  the  sisters  together,  went  out  with  the  children  to  the 
orchard,  and  strayed  on  to  the  woods,  and  did  not  come  back 
till  the  horn  was  blown  for  supper.  This  meal  was  so  ill- 
cooked,  and  viciously  evil,  she  could  only  pretend  to  partake 
of  it,  but  Melvina  ate  voraciously  and  indiscriminately,  and 
there  were  packed  into  the  pony-carriage,  for  her  further  de- 
lectation, two  jars  of  pickles,  a  bottle  of  maple  syrup  and  some 
hideous  fruit-cake. 

There  were  many  delays  in  starting ;  it  was  a  good  deal 
later  than  Dorla  meant  when  they  got  off ;  and  they  crossed 
the  much  dreaded  rope  ferry  in  the  grey  of  the  twilight.  It 
was  about  this  time  MeL » ina  began  to  feel  the  reaction  from 
the  excitement  of  the  visit,  and  possibly  some  protest  of  na- 
ture against  the  outrage  that  had  been  put  upon  her  in  the 
matter  of  the  tea.  She  began  to  cry,  and  to  say  she  felt 
sure  that  she  was  going  to  die.  As  nothing  was  more 
probable  than  that  she  would  die  soon,  and  suddenly,  Dorla 
was  in  terror ;  it  was  a  strange  experience,  driving  along  the 
dusky,  lonely  road,  perhaps  with  Death  as  her  companion. 
They  met  no  one ;  and  whenever  anything  was  said  about 
stopping  for  assistance  at  one  of  the  straggling  farm-houses 
aear  the  road,  the  poor  girl  moaned  and  begged  her  to  go  on, 
to  get  her  home  before  she  died.  She  was  plainly  in  great 
anguish,  enduring  one  of  those  strange,  nameless  agonies, 
which  seem  to  the  sufferer  like  death,  and  are  perhaps  more 
terrible.  Dorla  was  very  inexperienced  in  sickness,  and  very 
lympathebic;  she  seemed  standing  at  the  very  threshold  of 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  185 

the  unknown,  as  she  held  the  poor  child  in  her  arms,  and 
tried  to  reassure  her. 

"  It  is  so  awful,"  moaned  the  sufferer,  as  she  gasped  for 
breath. 

t(  What  is  so  awful  ?  "  said  her  companion,  longing  to  get 
the  clue  to  her  sensations. 

"  I  don't  know — everything — it's  like  going  down — down 
— sinking  away — it's  a  dark,  dark  place." 

"  And  where  is  the  pain  you  suffer  most  ?  "  said  Dorla,  in 
her  healthy  ignorance. 

"  I  don't  have  any  pain,"  cried  the  girl,  in  a  horror.  "  It's 
my  feelings — it's  something  in  me — it  isn't  my  back  and  my 
head  and  all  that.  It's  like  being  frightened,  only  there's 
nothing  happened,  and  I  never  can  get  used  to  it." 

(( Were  you  ever  so  before,"  said  Dorla.  Yes,  she  had 
been  so  before,  only  this  was  worse.  But  then  she  said 
honestly,  she  always  thought  it  was  worse,  and  it  never 
seemed  just  alike.  Poor  creature !  The  doctor  being  a  strong 
healthy  man,  held  these -attacks  in  great  contempt,  and  left 
chloral  and  other  poison  to  be  given  to  her,  not  because  he 
thought  her  sufferings  worthy  even  of  this  treatment,  but 
to  prevent  the  possibility  of  his  comfortable  sleep  being 
broken  up  some  night  by  a  summons  to  her  bedside.  Her 
mother  soon  lost  patience  with  her,  never  having  had  any 
experience  that  way  herself;  the  children  even  ceased  to 
mind  when  she  was  moaning  and  crying  in  her  nameless 
agony,  clutching  some  one  by  the  wrist,  and  praying  that 
they  would  not  go  away  and  leave  her  by  herself.  As  she 
said,  she  never  could  get  used  to  it.  It  was  as  awful  now, 
as  when  it  first  came ;  there  was  always  a  fresh  fearfulness 
spread  over  the  old  experience ;  she  promised  herself  next 
time  she  would  not  be  so  frightened ;  but  next  time  it  waa 
as  bad  or  worse.  She  was  unimaginative  and  ignorant;  a 
very  clod ;  if  she  had  been  a  fine  lady,  she  would  have  been 
counted  full  of  affectation,  and  a  hypocrite,  trying  to  play 
on  th«  seDsibilities  of  those  around  he".  When  it  came  tc 


186  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

bearing  a  sharp  pain,  she  was  as  good  and  dogged  as  any 
body,  and  wanted  to  be  "let  alone;  "  but  she  cried  01 1  foi 
human  help  when  these  attacks  came  on.  That  might  hava 
shown  to  any  one  of  common  sense  that  they  were  more  rea? 
than  reality  itself,  but  it  was  her  misfortune  to  be  surrounded 
by  very  blunt,  coarse  people.  Dorla,  perhaps,  was  the  first 
person  who  had  entered  with  her  into  the  cloud,  and  pitied 
her  with  all  her  tender  soul,  though  as  ignorant  as  they  of 
the  mysterious  visitation.  There  was  something  in  the  close, 
firm  grasp  of  her  hand,  the  pity  and  gentleness  of  her  voice, 
that  gave  her  as  much  help  as  could  be  given  by  any  one. 
She  asked  her  no  more  questions,  but  acquiesced  in  the  dire 
conflict,  and  assured  her  that  she  would  stay  by  her  till  it 
was  over,  and  that  they  would  soon  be  home. 

All  this  time,  Jenny  was  going  steadily  and  irreproach- 
ably, Dorla  driving  with  one  hand,  and  not  always  that; 
the  twilight  was  long,  but  the  road  was  very  lonely.  Bye 
and  bye  they  met  a  wagon-load  of  men,  laughing  and  shout- 
ing in  drunken  hilarity ;  there  was  -still  light  enough  to  see 
them  when  they  came  side  by  side.  Strange  to  say,  they  did 
not  notice  the  little  carriage,  being  in  a  tipsy  wrangle  about 
a  seat.  Dorla  breathed  freer  when  they  were  out  of  hear- 
ing. She  was  not  afraid  as  she  ordinarily  was,  but  oppressed 
by  some  vague  and  mysterious  dread,  that  made  these  more 
prosaic  dangers  dim.  Still,  the  deepened  twilight,  and  the 
solemn  silence,  and  the  distance  from  human  help,  all  had 
their  effect  in  awing  her. 

It  seemed  very,  very  long  before  the  welcome  light  in  the 
window  of  Melvina's  home  appeared.  The  poor  girl  was  re- 
lieved by  the  sight  for  the  moment,  but  her  nervous  suffer- 
ing was  too  great  to  be  forgotten  long,  and  when  they  reached 
the  gate,  the  little  sister  on  the  watch  for  them  called  out 
the  unwelcome  news  to  her  mother,  that  Melvina  had  one 
of  her  bad  "  attacks."  These  "  attacks  "  always  roused  a 
spirit  of  rebellion  in  the  tender  mother ;  she  flounced  and 
jerked  a  good  deal,  for  a  Florence  Nightingale,  and  put  her 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  187 

ftps  together  in  a  steely  manner.  After  the  delinquent  had 
been  got  into  the  house  and  into  her  bed,  she  tossed  somt 
chloral  into  a  glass,  which  she  had  to  drink  "  at  her  peril.1* 
Then  she  warned  Mrs.  Rothermel  she'd  better  go,  as  Melvina 
needed  quiet,  and  Melvina  told  her  briefly  that  she  had,  be- 
ing quite  cowed  by  her  mother.  When  she  got  to  the  door, 
however,  the  poor  thing  called  her  back  and  whimpered  a 
good  deal,  but  the  mother  was  peremptory.  She  did  not 
want  to  be  kept  up  all  night ;  it  might  be  the  case  if  the 
blessed  chloral  was  not  allowed  to  do  its  work.  So  Dorla 
had  to  go,  with  the  consent  again  of  Melvina,  who  called  her 
back  the  second  time  to  make  her  promise  in  a  whisper,  that 
she'd  come  to  her  if  she  sent  for  her  any  time  when  she  was 
"  bad,"  even  if  it  were  at  night. 

A  small  urchin,  with  tan-colored  hair,  no  color  now  in  the 
dimness,  had  been  holding  Jenny's  head.  When  Dorla  got 
into  the  carriage  and  took  the  reins,  she  called  him  up  close 
to  her,  and  asked  him  in  a  low  tone  if  he  wouldn't  be  very 
good  to  his  poor  sister,  who  was  so  sick  and  suffering ;  and 
he  laughed  and  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  good  joke,  and 
said  "  that  wasn't  much  ;  "  but  maybe  he  was  impressed. 

Dorla  shuddered,  and  drove  away.  They  all  seemed 
brutes  to  her,  and  poor  Melvina's  strait  a  frightful  one. 
She  forgot  how  irritable  and  unlovely  the  creature  really 
was ;  all  her  heart  had  gone  out  to  her,  since  she  had  been 
che  companion  of  her  sufferings,  and  since  she  had  clung  to 
her  so  pitifully.  The  reality  of  the  great  end,  the  strange 
nearness  and  yet  distance  of  the  unknown  life  to  come,  filled 
fgr  with  solemn  thought.  She  forgot  the  lateness  of  the 
Lour,  the  loneliness. 

The  horse  was  going  on  at  her  own  pace.  Just  at  the  as 
cent  of  a  little  hill,  from  the  path  beside  the  road,  some  one 
teemed  to  come  out  from  the  darkness,  almost  upon  her, 
oefore  either  wer3  aware.  Dorla  started,  and  repressed  a 
low  cry. 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  said  a  voice,  and  Felix  stood  by  the 


188  ^   PERFECT  ADONIS. 

ride  of  the  carriage.  Jenny  halted,  maybe  it  was  because 
she  was  glad  of  any  excuse  going  up  the  hill ;  maybe  her 
mistress'  start  had  reacted  on  the  reins ;  maybe  she  thought 
it  was  good  manners  to  stop  when  any  one  came  up  to  talk 
to  people  in  the  carriage. 

"  I'm  glad  to  find  you  safe,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "  It  is  very 
late  for  you  to  be  out  all  alone." 

"  Is  it,"  said  Dorla,  strangely,  coming  back  into  her 
world.  "  I  do  not  mind  it  now.  I  wasn't  thinking  about 
being  frightened." 

"  But  you  ought  to  mind — it  is  not  right,  it  is  not  safe," 
he  said,  in  a  sort  of  wrath,  as  people  worked  up  by  suspense 
and  search  are  apt  to  speak.  "  It  should  not  be  allowed — I 
am  astonished — I — it  is  wild,  this  sort  of  carelessness — you 
don't  know  the  danger  yourself,  but  others  ought  to  know  it 
for  you.  Promise  me  you  won't  do  this  again." 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Dorla  slowly,  thinking  of  her 
promise  to  poor  Melvina  to  go  to  her  "  any  time  "  if  she  was 
very  bad.  She  thought  it  not  unlikely  she  might  be  called 
to  her  again  this  very  night,  and  she  should  surely  go. 

"  You  cannot !  "  he  said  under  his  breath.  "  Then  it  is 
because — " 

4<  It  is  because,"  she  said  quickly,  taking  the  words  from 
him,  "  it  is  because  I  have  promised  a  poor  sick  girl  to  go 
to  her  when  she  needs  me.  And  she  might  send  at  night." 

"  But  you  need  not  go  alone." 

"  No,  only  it  might  happen." 

"  But  you  don't  know  the  danger.  A  crowd  of  drunken 
men  passed  down  this  road  not  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  They  did  not  even  look  at  me,"  said  Dorla  with  a  little 
acorn. 

"You  are  almost  like  a  child,"  said  Felix,  hotly.  And 
the  sight  of  his  anger,  which  had  come  of  his  solicitude  and 
suspense,  smote  Dorla  with  a  terrible  and  dangerous  pang 
A.  strange  spasm  came  about  her  throat;  she  was  fright- 
sued  now.  Felix  stood  close  by  the  carriage  step.  Sh« 


.1  PERFECT  ADONIS.  189 

knew  in  another  moment  he  would  get  in  beside  her  and  bfl 
her  companion  througn  the  two  miles  that  lay  between  her 
and  her  home.  With  a  sudden  resolution,  she  touched  the 
reins. 

"  Good-night,  if  it  is  so  late,"  she  said,  in  a  smothered 
voice,  and  drove  away,  leaving  him  standing  bewildered  by 
the  roadside.  She  could  almost  see  the  fire  that  leapt  from 
his  eyes  as  he  drew  back. 

"  It  is  best,"  she  said  to  herself,  again  and  again,  "  it  is 
best  that  I  should  offend  him — that  I  should  seem  rnde  and 
ungentle  to  him,  hardly  like  a  lady."  But  all  the  same  it 
left  her  heart  as  sore  and  wounded  as  if  it  had  not  been 
best. 

When  Dorla  reached  the  house,  she  was  met  by  George, 
who  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  her  at  the  gate.  He  met  her 
with  much  mild  affection,  and  said  she  was  very  late  and  he 
had  begun  to  be  uneasy. 

"  Didn't  you  meet  Varian  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

l(  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  back  with  you  ?  He  went  to 
look  for  you." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  for  me  yourself ?"  said  Dorla, 
almost  fiercely,  as  she  got  out  of  the  carriage. 

"  I  ?  Why  Tucker  had  just  come  in  to  see  me  about  the 
winter  wheat,  and  I  had  to  attend  to  him,  and  Varian  said 
he'd  go,  he  seemed  so  restless  walking  up  and  down  the  path 
and  so  he  went.  I  knew  of  course  you  were  all  right." 

Dorla  went  into  the  house,  her  brain  in  a  tumult ;  she 
did  not  stay  to  listen  to  his  justification.  "  He  will  be  com- 
ng  back,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  George  will  watch  for 
Lim,  and  speak  to  him,  and  bring  him  in.  Where  shall  I 
hide  myself?" 

But  she  need  have  had  no  apprehension.  Felix  was 
striding  across  the  fields,  as  far  from  the  house  as  he  could 
go,  angry  and  bitter,  trying  to  make  himself  believe  h* 
aever  would  speak  to  her  again 


190  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

The  next  day  was  a  long  one ;  Dorla  had  one  of  hei 
.frightful  headaches.  She  lay  on  the  bed  with  the  room 
darkened  till  you  could  not  see  your  way  across  it,  and 
nobody  must  speak  a  loud  word,  or  shut  a  door  in  less 
than  five  minuses.  She  hated  acutely  and  viciously  every 
one  in  the  world,  Felix  included.  The  highest  virtue  that 
she  could  set  for  herself  was  to  be  silent  when  any  one 
came  near  her.  Every  vein  ran  fire ;  she  felt  as  if  liquid 
pain  circulated  through  her  entire  body  once  in  every  two 
minutes.  She  did  not  care  what  went  on  outside  her  room  ; 
people  might  smoke  their  cigars  now  and  wait  for  her  ; 
might  live  and  love  and  die,  and  she  was  indifferent  and 
more.  But  she  was  young  and  vigorous,  and  these  head- 
aches lasted  a  less  time  than  they  did  with  older  women. 
At  night  she  almost  always  slept,  worn  out  by  the  horrid 
battle,  and  the  next  morning  awoke,  pale  and  languid  and 
depressed,  but  in  no  suffering.  As  the  day  wore  on,  she 
would  gradually  regain  her  tone  of  nerve,  her  appetite,  her 
interest  in  what  went  on  around  her,  recovering  in  a  day 
what  would  have  been  the  work  of  a  week  with  a  less 
healthy  woman. 

It  was  on  the  third  day;  she  had  gone  out  about  five  in 
the  afternoon,  to  sit  under  the  trees  near  the  gate,  still  pale 
and  weary,  but  as  it  were  awakening.  She  had  almost  for- 
gotten Felix,  she  had  been  so  occupied  with  herself,  poor 
thing.  She  had  not  heard  his  name,  and  did  not  know  whether 
he  had  been  at  the  house.  She  had  a  book  in  her  hand,  but 
she  could  not  read;  her  eyes  had  a  sore  hurt  feeling,  from 
JJie  pain  of  the  two  days  past,  and  so  she  sat  idle,  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  two  fingers  between  the  pages  that  she  had 
not  energy  to  read,  he/'  head  leaned  back  against  the  tree 
under  which  she  sat.  She  heard  the  sound  of  wheels, 
and  looking  up,  along  the  road  not  ten  feet  from  her,  passed 
what,  for  her  peace,  she  had  better  not  have  seen !  It  was 
Felix,  in  his  high  wagon,  driving  his  fast  horse  ;  and  beside 
iiim  sat  a  young  woman,  one  whom  Dorla  had  never  seea 


A  PEKFECT  ADONIS.  191 

before,  as  young  as  Dorla  herself,  and  prettier  pei-haps. 
She  had  light  hair,  and  wore  a  charming  sort  of  French  hatf 
all  white  chip,  and  blue  bows  and  pink  roses.  She  looked 
as  if  she  had  come  down  off  a  Dresden  vase,  to  dazzle 
poor  sick  Dorla's  sight,  and  to  carry  away  Felix  from  hei . 
It  is  surprising  how  much  you  can  see  in  a  minute;  but 
if  you  are  looking  with  all  your  senses  as  Dorla  was,  you 
can  carry  away  a  pretty  strong  impression.  Felix  was  lean 
ing  towards  this  pink  and  blue  divinity ;  she  had  all  the  co- 
quetry and  complacency  imaginable  in  her  face  as  she  half 
turned  from  him,  but  only  half.  During  the  moment  in 
which  they  had  flashed  before  her  gaze,  she  felt  that  she 
had  read  the  whole  story.  They  were  so  absorbed  that 
the  young  lady  did  not  see  her  at  all.  Felix  as  an  after 
thought,  an  interruption,  turned  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  house,  saw  her,  and  lifted  his  hat.  The  gesture 
caught  his  companion's  attention,  she  started  and  turned 
to  look  at  whom  he  bowed,  but  it  was  too  late,  for  they 
were  already  past  the  house. 

Dorla  started  up,  and  in  a  sort  of  anger  hurried  to  the 
house,  trembling  all  over. 

"  They  will  be  coming  back  in  a  few  minutes,  and  they 
shall  not  see  me,"  she  cried  to  herself.  These  headaches 
leave  one  petulant  and  childish.  Dorla  flung  herself  upon 
her  bed  and  cried.  tl  I  only  want  to  be  left  alone,"  she  said. 
"  Why  did  he  come  this  way  ?  I  want  him  to  be  happy, 
but  I  want  to  be  let  alone  myself.  I  don't  want  to  see  him, 
I  don't  want  to  hear  about  him.  I  don't  want  to  be  tortured 
in  this  way  forever.  O,  if  George  would  only  take  me  away 
from  here  awhile !  "  Then  she  wished  the  headache  back. 
If  it  had  only  been  yesterday,  she  would  not  have  cared. 

Bye  and  bye  they  came  back ;  she  heard  the  wheels  a  long 
•ray  off  down  the  road,  and  she  sprang  up  and  started  to 
»ne  window,  and  then  went  back  as  suddenly,  and  pressed 
aer  hands  before  her  eyes.  For  she  had  bound  herself  by  a 
vow  never  to  look  at  him  voluntarily.  If  she  had  looked, 


192  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

the  would  have  seen  he  gazed  intently  towards  fcl.e  houaf 
this  time,  and  that  he  drove  slowly  while  he  passed  it,  and 
that  his  companion  looked  a  shade  less  radiantly  happy. 
But  she  did  not  look ;  poor,  frantic,  petulant  child,  she 
tried  to  say  her  prayers,  but  she  did  not  feel  much  like 
praying.  Fortunately,  to  have  our  prayers  heard  it  is  not 
always  necessary  to  feel  like  praying ;  else  the  devil  would 
only  have  to  stir  us  up  with  some  temptation  and  take  our 
arms  away. 

The  next  day  at  dinner,  George  said,  "  I've  heard  a  piece 
of  news."  And  Dorla  knew  what  the  news*  was  as  soon  as 
he  had  said  the  words.  She  turned  rather  white ;  but  she 
had  gone  a  long  way  since  Felix  drove  by  with  the  pink  and 
blue  enchantress  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  of  yesterday. 
She  was  not  jealous  any  more,  only  a  little  bitter,  and  very 
much  ashamed  and  humbled. 

"  Varian  has  plunged  into  a  violent  flirtation,  and  they 
think  it  is  in  earnest  now.  This  is  an  old  flame  ;  somebody 
he  met  in  Europe.  They  say  she  has  followed  him  up,  and 
doesn't  mean  to  let  him  slip.  Harriet  is  quite  excited." 

"  Does  she  like  her  ?  "  Dorla  said,  quite  calmly. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so.  At  any  rate  she  seems  much  pleased, 
and  Mrs.  Yarian  has  quite  set  her  heart  upon  it.  She  has 
a  good  deal  of  money,  and  it  is  altogether  just  the  thing  for 
him." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  the  Yarians  needed  money  urgently," 
said  Dorla,  coldly,  putting  some  sauce  upon  the  plate  of 
pudding  that  she  handed  to  her  husband. 

"  I  don't  suppose  they  do,  but  the  more  people  have  the 
more  they  always  want,  I've  noticed."  And  he  said  it  as  if 
nobody  had  ever  said  it  before  him.  Seeing  Dorla  some- 
what interested,  he  went  on  to  tell  her  her  rival's  name,  her 
age,  what  people  said  about  her,  how  Felix  had  shown  his 
devotion,  how  the  family  were  showing  theirs. 

"  And  we  ought  to  do  something  for  them,"  said  George 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  193 

deeply  convinced  that  he  ow  ed  a  duty  to  society.  "  That 
fdte  now;  something  to  make  it  pleasant  for  her." 

"  O,  spare  me !  "  cried  Dorla,  with  a  hard  ring  in  her 
voice,  pushing  back  her  chair,  and  making  a  little  gesture  of 
protestation  with  her  hands.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
this  fortunate  young  woman  had  enough  to  make  it  pleasant 
for  her  already.  George  resigned  his  plate  of  pudding  (he 
was  something  of  a  gourmand,  and  it  cost  him  quite  an 
effort),  and  got  up  and  followed  Dorla,  who  had  arisen  from 
the  table.  He  wanted  to  get  her  up  to  the  point  of  doing 
something  in  the  way  of  entertainment. 

"  The  Varians  have  done  a  great  deal  for  you,  Dorla,"  he 
said,  insinuatingly.  "  I  can't  help  thinking  it  would  be 
well  to  make  them  some  return." 

"  I  am  not  overwhelmed  with  gratitude  for  what  they've 
done  for  me,"  she  answered,  standing  in  the  door  of  the 
hall  with  her  back  to  him,  and  looking  moodily  out  into  the 
sunny  yard. 

"  Well,  I  am,  if  you  are  not,"  he  said,  with  a  little  feeble 
pomp.  "  They  have  shown  me  great  courtesy  ever  since 
they  knew  me ;  and  I  feel  a  desire  to  offer  them  some 
hospitality.  This  is  just  the  occasion;  here  is  this  young 
lady  who,  in  all  probability,  is  engaged  to  Felix,  or  soon 
will  be.  She  is  a  stranger  here ;  of  course,  it's  very  dull 
for  her  in  this  quiet  little  place.  She  has  just  come  from 
Newport,  and  must  feel  the  difference." 

"  Why  did  she  come  then,  if  she  objects  to  quietness  and 
littleness  ?  She  must  like  it,  or  she  would  not  stay." 

"  I  didn't  say  she  didn't  like  it ;  but  that  is  not  the  point. 
The  point  is  that  the  Varians  want  to  entertain  her,  and 
help  the  thing  along,  and  we  have  it  in  our  power  to  give 
them  some  assistance.  Now,  I  am  not  speaking  from  conjec- 
ture ;  Harriet  said  as  much  to  me  this  morning." 

"  She  did  ?  "  cried  Dorla,  quite  virago-like,  turning  round 
tpon  him.  "  She  did  ?  then  you  may  say  to  her,  she  may 
rait  a  long  while  for  me  to  ask  hei  here.  I  have  had 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

enough  of  Harriet  Varian.  She  had  bettor  leave  me  atone. 
That  is  all  I  ask." 

George  essayed  to  look  profoundly  shocked,  but  did  look, 
in  reality,  very  angry. 

<f  You  are  talking  very  strangely,"  he  said  with  dignity, 
"  and  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  I  do  not  expect  you  to,"  she  said  briefly. 

"  You  are  quarrelling  with  your  best  friends,"  he  resumed 
stiffly,  "  and  that  does  not  look  well  for  you." 

"  Heaven  knows  I  haven't  so  many  that  I  can  indulge 
in  quarrelling  for  the  pleasure  of  it,"  cried  Dorla,  bit- 
terly. 

"Well,  that  is  just  what  you  are  doing,"  said  her 
husband. 

"  No,"  she  said  suddenly,  with  a  softening  of  her  voice ; 
"  no,  George,  I  find  no  pleasure  in  it,  and  I  do  not  want  to 
quarrel  with  you  ever.  Harriet  Varian  is  not  my  friend, 
and  has  only  done  me  injury.  If  I  had  never  seen  her  I 
should  be  a  happier  woman.  She  is  dangerous,  self-willed 
und  capricious.  She  only  lives  for  pleasure,  and  uses  reck- 
lessly all  who  will  be  used  by  her.  She  has  no  depth  of 
feeling,  no  refinement;  she  would  sacrifice  anybody's  hap- 
piness for  an  afternoon's  amusement.  'All  that  gives  her 
any  power  or  consequence,  is  her  strong  self-will,  and  her 
abundant  money.  Why  should  we  have  anything  to  do 
with  such  a  woman  as  that  ?  She  is  below  us,  George ;  it 
is  a  degradation." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  George,  uncomfortably, 
a  little  overwhelmed  with  his  wife's  force  of  speech.  "  The 
world  would  not  agree  with  you." 

"  Why  should  we  care  for  that  ?  I  hope  we  are  not 
living  for  it." 

George,  who  was  profoundly,  smally,  worldly,  winced  a 
little  and  said  of  course  they  were  not  living  for  it.  Still, 
people  had  their  duties  to  society,  and  so  on,  back  to  the 
therished  subject  of  the  fete.  He  had  an  uncomfortable 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  i95 

donsciousnoss  that  he  was  not  having  the  best  of  it,  and 
that  added  a  shade  of  acrimony  to  his  tone. 

"  Ask  me  anything  alse,  George,"  cried  Dorla  at  length 
with  entreaty.  "  I  will  do  anything  else ;  but  to  go  through 
all  that  preparation — to  have  them  here  for  hours  upon  my 
hands, — I  think  it  would  almost  kill  me ;  indeed  you  don't 
know  what  you  ask." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  George,  a  little  mollified, <{  I  won't  say 
anything  more  about  it  now,  if  you  will  promise  me  one 
thing.  And  that  is,  to  go  out,  as  you  did  before  this 
strange  fit  came  upon  you." 

"  How  do  /ou  mean  ?  How  often  ?  "  said  Dorla,  falter- 
ingly.  , 

"  As  often  as  I  may  desire  it,"  returned  her  husband, 
loftily.  "  I  should  think  a  wife's  duty  was  plain  enough 
in  such  a  matter." 

Dorla  flushed  and  was  silent  awhile ;  then  she  said  in  » 
low  voice,  "  I  am  willing  to  go  whenever  I  have  no  head' 
ache — whenever  you  think  me  well  enough." 

"  It  is  for  your  own  good,"  said  her  husband,  now  feeling 
the  balance  turning  in  his  favor.  "  It  is  because  it  is  best 
for  you.  I  myself  care  very  little  for  these  things." 

Dorla  was  silent ;  she  was  not  aDgry,  only  ashamed  of 
him,  now,  and  it  is  so  much  easier  to  control  your  speech 
when  the  case  is  such. 

He  resolved  to  put  her  sincerity  to  an  early  test ;  but  in 
the  meantime  as  business  called  him  to  go  away  for  a  night, 
he  contented  himself  with  telling  her  he  wanted  her  to  drive 
him  to  Port  Jervis  for  the  5.30  train,  if  she  had  no  objec- 
tion. She  had  an  objection,  a  bitter  one.  The  only  way 
lay  through  the  village,  the  cruel  little  village,  and  she 
hated  the  sight  and  thought  of  it.  Couldn't  Tim  takd 
him? 

"No,"  coldly,  "Tim  was  off  in  the  fields  with  the  men." 

"  Ver  Y  well,"  said  Dorla,  feeling  she  had  not  begun  hei 
valk  of  submission  gracefully. 


£96  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

George  was  beginning  to  relish  the  sweets  of  sovereignty, 
It  is  truly  a  luxury  to  make  a  person  yield  to  you,  who  in 
your  heart  you  know  is  your  superior.  Dorla  was  so  con- 
scientious j  he  began  to  see  what  a  beautiful  string  it  would 
be  to  harp  upon,  f(  a  wife's  duty."  It  was  a  hook  in  her 
nose  and  a  bridle  on  her  jaws.  "  Ha !  a  wife's  duty  !  " 
Still  he  was  very  fond  of  her.  But  he  was  very  small, 
and  Harriet  had  sneered  a  little  at  him  for  not  doing 
more  as  ne  tnought  tit  himself. 

The  drive  to  Port  Jervis  was  not  a  very  happy  one. 
George  was  lofty,  and  loftiness  is  not  becoming  to  insignifi- 
cant people.  He  was  full  of  his  new  resolutions  and  of  the 
necessity  of  taking  a  stand. 

The  village  at  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon  is  quite 
deserted ;  but  Dorla  breathed  freer  when  they  were  out  of 
it.  They  had  left  some  orders  at  a  shop,  but  had  seen  no 
one  save  the  clerk  there,  and  only  stable  boys  and  maids 
and  children  as  they  passed  the  hotels.  It  was  fifteen 
minutes  past  five  when  they  reached  the  bridge  at  Matamo- 
ras. 

"You  won't  want  me  to  drive  you  any  further  ?  *'  she 
said,  taking  it  for  granted  he  would  cross  the  bridge  on  foot 
as  he  had  often  done,  and  walk  the  trifling  distance  to  the 
station. 

"  I  think  I  should  prefer  your  driving  me  across,"  he 
said,  with  unwonted  decision  in  his  voice.  "  It's  a  hot 
afternoon  and  my  valise  is  heavy." 

"  Couldn't  you  get  a  boy  to  carry  it,"  said  Dorla. 
"  There  is  one  playing  by  the  bridge.  It  will  be  so  late  for 
me  to  get  home ;  and  besides  I  am  always  afraid  of  Jenny 
near  the  train." 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  danger,"  answered  the 
supreme  gentleman  "I  wish  you  to  get  used  to  driving; 
I  should  not  have  bought  a  horse  for  you  that  was  not 
entirely  safe." 

Dorla  bit  her  lips,  and   drove  up  on  the  bridge.     That 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  197 

iraa  just  one  thing  she  could  do ;  she  could  obey  liim,  if 
she  could  not  love  him.  But  it  is  surprising  how  intolerable 
apparently  harmless  people  grow  to  be  when  you  are  mar- 
ried to  them.  George  had  seemed  to  her  four  months  ago, 
grave,  quiet,  handsome,  anything  you  please ;  and  here  he 
was  small,  meddling,  tyrannical,  contemptible.  What  wa* 
she  to  do  about  it  ?  It  was  maddening  to  owe  him  obedi- 
ence, loyalty,  love,  and  to  think  of  the  long  years  to  come. 

The  river  as  you  cross  the  bridge  at  Matamoras  is  some- 
times very  pretty  in  the  afternoon  ;  it  looks  calm  and  deep 
and  the  hills  make  a  dark  corner  to  the  picture.  Dorla  was 
saying  to  herself,  I  wish  I  were  lying  at  the  bottom  of  it 
among  the  stones  and  slime.  And  George  was  saying  aloud, 
he  wished  her  to  call  upon  the  Varians  the  next  day  without 
any  fail.  Somehow  between  her  teeth  she  gave  a  promise 
that  she  would ;  and  George  felt  comfortably  elate. 

Port  Jervis  is  a  grimy,  miserable  place,  at  least  the 
portion  of  it  that  the  wayfarer  from  Milford  traverses. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  evil  smells  and  a  vile  sort  of  city 
squalor  that  is  sickening  to  look  upon  in  summer,  just  cros- 
sing the  river  from  such  verdure  and  sweetness.  It  sickened 
Doris's  very  soul ;  she  longed  to  get  away  from  it,  but  she 
must  go  on.  Bye  and  bye  came  the  hotels,  and  the  rail- 
ways, and  beyond,  the  station. 

"  Shall  I  leave  you  here  ?  "  she  said,  pulling  up  Jenny  by 
the  side  door  of  the  Delaware  House,  where  he  generally 
alighted. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  affected  nonchalance.  "  You  may 
drive  me  across  to  the  depot." 

Now  the  depot  lies  across  the  street,  two  or  three  hun- 
dred feet  wide;  and  this  street  is  laced  and  threaded  by 
railway  tracks  ;  and  there  is  hardly  a  moment,  day  or  night, 
when  an  engine  i§  not  puffing  and  snorting  up  or  down  it, 
or  a  sharp  bell  ringing,  or  a  whistle  blowing,  or  a  red  flag 
being  waved  in  wariing.  To  be  accurate,  one  hundred  and 
forty-two  trains  go  out  of  Port  Jervis  every  day ;  and  the? 


198  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

~   / 

are  making  ready  to  go  always.  Dorla  felt  her  heart  give  a 
great  plunge ;  was  not  this  more  than  she  could  dc  ?  This 
street  was  her  terror ;  she  had  often  dreamed  of  it  at  night. 
And  though  she  had,  eight  minutes  before,  wished  hersell 
among  the  stones  and  slime  of  the  river-bed,  she  was  mor- 
tally afraid  of  Jenny  and  the  engines.  So  contradictory  is 
human  nature.  She  would  have  gone  down  on  her  knees  to 
George  to  get  him  to  let  her  off  from  this ;  she  even  began 
to  whimper,  and  to  tremble,  and  to  plead,  for  she  was  a 
thorough  coward.  But  it  is  possible  George  did  not  hear 
what  she  said,  for  there  was  a  good  deal  of  noise  and  clatter 
al)  around  them,  and  besides,  he  saw  in  the  distance,  on  the 
platform  of  the  depot,  a  rival  counsellor-at-law,  before 
whose  envious  eyes  he  wished  to  make  parade  of  his  pretty 
wife,  and  his  natty  little  pony  carriage. 

"  Quick,  Dorla,  quick ;  drive  on,  don't  you  hear  what  I 
say  ?  " 

Dorla  heard ;  and  what  her  courage  wouldn't  do,  her 
conscience  did  do  for  her.  She  must  obey  him,  if  she  died 
for  it ;  that  she  never  doubted.  She  managed  to  keep  her 
hands  closed  over  the  reins,  but  they  had  about  as  much 
power  in  them  as  a  baby's,  and  she  saw  absolutely  nothing 
from  the  white  glare  and  light  that  excitement  made  before 
her  eyes.  Somehow  they  crossed  the  tracks  and  reached  the 
platform,  but  not  until  George  had  snatched  the  reins  and 
guided  the  horse  to  where  he  wished  to  stop,  with  a  sup- 
pressed exclamation  of  annoyance.  He  had  caught  a  sar- 
Jouic  smile  on  the  lips  of  the  rival  counsellor.  He  got  out, 
swelling  with  wrath ;  and  took  his  valise,  and  bade  Dorla 
look  what  she  was  doing,  and  almost  forgot  to  say  good- 
bye. 

Dorla  tried  to  look ;  but  alas,  a  wandering  engine  snorted 
suddenly  down  the  track ;  Jenny  gave  a4  plunge  and  she 
gave  a  scream  quite  simultaneously  ;  instead  of  holding  thft 
reins,  she  clasped  her  hands  before  her  face  not  to  see  the 
destruction  trat  was  coming  ;  and  with  reins  flapping  thej 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  199 

•rent;  flying  across  the  track,  to  the  great  horror  of  all  be 
holders,  escaping  the  engine,  but  apparently  bent  on  a 
thorough  run  away. 

Fortunately  among  the  loungers  on  the  steps  of  the  hotel 
was  a  man  of  nerve  and  good  judgment.  He  caught  Jenny 
by  the  bridle  as  she  passed,  and  hung  on  manfully  till  she 
came  to  a  stand-still.  He  was  a  stage  driver  and  he  knew  a 
good  deal  about  horses,  and  he  soothed  her  till  she  was  quiet, 
and  then  turned  his  attention  to  the  young  driver.  Quite  a 
little  crowd  had  gathered  round  her,  on  the  outskirts  of 
which  was  her  husband.  He  soon  made  his  way  up  to  he*- 
and  reproved  her  mildly  for  her  carelessness  and  cowardice. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said,  "  but  George  I  am  afraid  to  drive 
her  home.  Please  get  somebody  to  go  with  me." 

((  Nonsense,"  returned  George,  "  she  is  as  quiet  as  a  lamb, 
and  you  were  enough  to  frighten  any  horse,  screaming  as 
you  did.  She  has  behaved  better  than  I  ever  hoped." 
This  he  believed ;  but  he  wanted  everybody  to  believe  it 
too,  for  he  had  pretty  much  made  up  his  mind  to  sell  her  in 
the  fall,  and  a  rumor  of  this  sort  of  business  would  be 
money  out  of  pocket.  The  bystanders  agreed  that  it  was 
no  fault  of  "  the  pony's."  And  so  after  a  little  chaffing  and 
chatting,  they  gradually  dispersed,  and  the  whistle  blew 
for  George's  train  and  he  "  dispersed  "  too,  telling  Dorla,  as 
he  hurried  away,  that  she  must  drive  on  alone,  and  that  she 
must  look  what  she  was  about,  and  get  used  to  all  this  sort 
of  thing.  After  he  had  gone,  and  she  was  preparing  trem- 
blingly to  start,  the  good-natured  stage-driver  came  up  and 
said  there  was  a  lad  who  was  going  up  in  the  stage,  who'd 
be  very  glad  to  drive  for  her  if  she  wanted  him.  That  was 
a  great  temptation ;  Dorla  would  have  given  all  she  had  in 
the  W(  rid  to  have  had  him  do  it ;  but  George  had  said  she 
was  tc  go  alone,  and  that  made  an  end  of  it  for  her.  She 
thanked  the  man  and  «hook  her  head,  and  started  off  on  her 
terrible  journey.  When  she  crossed  the  bridge  she  didn't 
vish  she  was  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  river ;  she  felt  mora 


£00  -A  PERFECT  AIJONI8. 

like  clinging  to  life,  with  both  poor  weak  hands  •  it  didn't 
seem  to  her  there  was  anything  else  worth  having ;  George 
and  his  hatefulness  had  faded  out  of  sight,  and  the  great 
temptation  of  Felix.  If  she  could  only  get  home  safe  1  that 
was  all  she  asked. 

But  before  she  got  to  the  outskirts  of  Matamoras,  it  be- 
came evident  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  Jenny. 
She  fidgetted  and  put  back  her  ears,  and  moved  uneasily  in 
her  harness,  and  finally — appalling  symptom — began  to  make 
strange  motions  with  her  hind  legs.  Dorla  gave  a  piercing 
shriek  at  this  last  gesture,  and  sprang  out  of  the  carriage  on 
tne  turf.  Fortunately  they  were  going  very  slow,  and 
Jenny  had  got  used  to  "  this  sort  of  thing,"  and  didn't 
start.  A  boy  and  a  man  saw  her,  and  came  up.  The  man 
examined  the  harness,  and  said  it  wasn't  any  wonder;  a 
strap  was  broken,  and  the  carriage  was  pressing  on  her 
heels,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  she  would  have  run  no 
doubt.  Dorla  shook  all  over  at  this  piece  of  news,  and 
actually  began  to  cry.  The  man  was  melted,  and  tried  his 
best  to  cheer  her.  His  boy  should  take  the  pony  back  to 
"  Port,"  and  have  the  trouble  remedied ;  while  she  should 
wait  at  his  house,  and  his  wife  should  get  her  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  make  her  comfortable.  This  accordingly  was  done. 
The  tea  was  very  poor,  but  the  good  nature  was  very  com- 
forting. But,  alas,  for  the  flight  of  time.  It  was  half-past 
six  when  the  boy  started  on  his  errand ;  it  was  a  quarter 
to  eight  when  he  appeared  in  sight  on  his  return.  Every- 
one knows  what  harness-makers  and  blacksmiths  are,  in  the 
matter  of  delays ;  and  perhaps  the  poor  fellow  got  an  unjust 
scolding.  But  there  was  a  travelling  "  show  "  across  the 
river,  and  it  was  his  father's  opinion  he  had  spent  full  hulf 
the  time  he  had  been  gone  in  its  vicinity.  It  is  not  quite 
dark  at  a  quarter  to  eight  in  August,  but  it  is  much  nearer 
to  it  than  is  sometimes  pleasant. 

"You're  not  afraid?  "said  the  man,  putting  the  reins 
into  her  hands  after  she  was  seated. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  201 

"  No-o,"  she  said  with  her  teeth  chattering.  <c  You  don't 
think  there's  any  danger,  now  the  harness  is  all  right  ?  w 

"  Not  the  least  bit  in.  the  world,"  he  said  most  assur- 
ingly. 

A.nd  so  she  started  on  again.  How  fast  it  grew  dark  ! 
And  how  many  noises  she  heard,  in  the  loneliest  parts  of 
the  road ;  people  driving  behind  her  a  long,  long  way,  and 
then  passing  her  very  suddenly ;  men,  horrid  strange  men, 
laughing  and  smoking,  and  looking  back  at  her.  She  had 
never  before  known  how  few  houses  there  were  between 
Matamoras  and  Milford ;  great  stretches  of  lonely  fields, 
and  of  lonelier  darker  woods.  Jenny,  however,  behaved 
better,  and  had  ceased  all  agsrre?«ive  action  of  her  hind  legs. 
Dorla  thought  she  woull  nave  liked  a  horse  without  those 
horrible  hind  legs ;  they  came  so  near  the  carriage,  and  were 
capable  of  so  much. 

It  was  as  dark  as  midnight,  when  she  drove  into  the 
village ;  the  moon  had  not  risen,  and  the  sky  was  clouded. 
It  was  very  comforting  to  see  lights  streaming  from  houses, 
and  to  hear  people's  voices,  and  to  know  you  could  make 
somebody  hear  yours  if  there  were  any  need.  The  things  for 
which  she  had  left  an  order  at  the  store,  had  to  be  called 
for.  This  became  a  serious  matter  as  she  drew  near  that 
place.  For  there  was  a  dense  crowd  all  about  the  open  space, 
between  the  stone  building  and  the  hotels,  where  the  roads 
cross ;  and  a  great  flaring  light  held  high  aloft,  made  quite 
a  startling  spectacle.  It  was  a  vender  of  quack  medicine, 
who  had  adopted  this  method  of  attracting  notice,  and  of 
selling  his  wares,  and  getting  his  verses  listened  to.  He 
had  counted  wisely  upon  the  unoccupied  condition  of  the 
minds  in  Milford ;  gentle  and  simple,  old  and  young,  wise 
ind  foolish,  had  gone  running  out  to  swell  the  crowd  about 
aim.  The  hotel  parlors  were  emptied,  and  the  piazzas  bare. 

The  effect,  as  has  been  said,  was  picturesque,  the  night 
was  dark,  and  the  crowd  gay  in  clothing  and  varied,  and 
Che  great  torch  shed  its  waving  light  and  smoke  down  OP 


202  A  PEEFECI  ADON18. 

ihem,  now  doubtfully,  now  broadly.  Dorla  could  neither 
get  up  to  the  door  of  the  store,  nor  past  the  crowd  on  hei 
way  home ;  she  tried  to  approach  the  store,  but  Jenny 
could  see  nothing  picturesque  in  the  effect.  On  the  con- 
trary she  was  very  much  put  about  by  what  she  saw,  and 
began  to  start  and  rear  and  justify  Dorla  in  a  very  fright- 
ened scream.  Somebody  from  the  edge  of  the  crowd 
started  forward  and  seized  her  by  the  bridle ;  and  led  her 
to  the  side  of  the  road  in  front  of  the  store  and  quieted 
her  gradually.  This  time  it  was  Felix,  and  not  the  stage- 
driver  ;  which  was  more  appropriate.  Dorla  shook  all  over, 
and  tried  to  get  out  of  the  carriage,  but  actually  could  not. 
Another  person  came  out  of  the  crowd  and  offered  her 
assistance.  And  this  one  was  young  Davis. 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel !  "  he  cried,  "  out  at  this  hour  alone ! 
What  are  you  doing  here,  and  what  is  there  that  I  can  do 
for  you  ?  " 

"  Get  the  clerk  to  bring  out  the  things  I  ordered,"  was 
all  she  could  say,  sinking  back  into  her  seat.  Mr.  Davis 
went  briskly  into  the  store  and  gave  the  desired  directions 
and  came  back.  During  this  time  Felix  stood  by  Jenny's 
head,  and  engaged  himself  in  keeping  her  quiet,  not  saying 
a  word  to  Dorla.  Several  others,  having  got  enough  of 
ihe  quack  doctor's  rhymes,  and  recognizing  Dorla,  came 
•ibout  the  carriage.  For  some  reason,  Harriet  was  not 
among  them ;  Dorla  caught  sight  of  her  a  little  way  off, 
with  the  pink  and  blue  Dresden  china  beauty ;  they  both 
seemed  to  watch  her  but  did  not  approach.  It  was  enough 
for  Dorla  that  she  was  there.  She  could  not  see  anything 
else.  Felix  had  just  left  them,  it  was  evident,  and  they 
were  waiting  for  his  return.  The  torch  of  the  quack 
doctor  seemed  bent  on  illuminating  her  blonde  hair  if 
nothing  else.  Dorla  saw  her  and  tried  to  look  away  and 
saw  her  still,  though  all  else  seemed  in  darkness. 

Mrs.  Bishop  kissed  her  and  talked  to  her  a  good  deal; 
Miss  Gray  son  and  Miss  Davis  made  much  lamentation  thai 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  203 

they  never  saw  her  now.  (She  was  no  longer  a  rival  and 
they  were  quite  affectionate.)  Miss  Whymple  even  had 
jome  to  Christian  sentiments  about  her,  and  begged  she 
would  come  down  and  play  croquet  sometimes.  And  worst 
of  all,  Mr.  Davis  had  quite  an  easy  semi-flirtatious  manner, 
as  if  he  knew  she  would  be  only  too  glad  of  some  attention 
from  him  now.  It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  her;  she  hoped 
afterwards  that  she  had  answered  questions  properly  and 
not  said  or  done  anything  unwise,  but  she  could  remember 
very  little  but  that  after  the  packages  were  stored  away 
under  the  seat,  young  Davis  had  said  quite  confidently, 
"  Now  I'm  going  to  drive  you  home,"  and  Mrs.  Bishop  had 
said,  "  Yes,  my  dear,  I  shall  insist  upon  it,"  and  Mr.  Davis 
had  stepped  into  the  carriage  without  more  permission  and 
Felix  had  lifted  his  hat  and  walked  away  to  join  his  sister 
and  .her  companion. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  see  the  reins  in  a  man's  hands, 
and  not  be  afraid  of  everything  they  passed ;  but  she  was 
so  full  of  annoyance  and  regret  at  the  meeting  with  Felix, 
she  could  not  much  enjoy  the  sweets  of  protection.  It  was 
bitter  to  feel  he  must  be  angry  with  her,  and  despise  her 
too ;  be  angry  with  her  for  driving  out  alone  at  night  when 
he  had  been  so  vehement  against  it ;  and  despise  her  for 
permitting  young  Davis'  familiar  ways.  To  be  letting  him 
drive  her  home  alone  at  night.  She  knew  that  he  would 
boast  of  it  like  a  young  simpleton  as  he  was,  and  that 
he  would  make  it  understood  he  was  always  most  welcome 
at  the  farm-house.  And  Felix  would  think  that  she  was 
jealous,  and  that  this  was  her  way  of  revenge.  When  if  he 
only  knew  how  she  had  brought  herself  to  feel  about  it — 
Ihat  she  prayed  for  him  all  the  time,  that  she  had  almost 
felt  thankful  for  her  bitter  mistake  about  him,  since  it  had 
humbled  her  so  utterly  ;  and  had  left  him  unharmed,  and 
ready  for  his  present  happiness.  If  it  only  had  not  come  so 
soon  I  These  and  other  thoughts  like  it,  were  filling  her 
while  young  Davis'  unmeaning  prattle  hurtled  about 


204  A  PERFECT 

her  ears.  When  they  reached  the  farm-housej  they  wer* 
met  by  Tim  and  two  men  with  lanterns,  and  dear  old  Mrs, 
Rothermel  in  misery  of  spirit.  Dorla  reassured  her,  and 
explained  a  few  of  her  misfortunes  GO  her.  Young  Davii 
came  in,  as  she  knew  he  would,  and  stayed  till  half-past  ten 
o'clock.  The  weariness  of  it.  What  could  he  have  found 
to  entertain  him  ? 

He  had  his  full  reward,  however,  as  in  making  hia 
entrance  to  the  hotel  at  five  minutes  before  eleven,  he  met 
Felix,  pacing  moodily  up  and  down  the  flags,  with  his  cigai , 
He  was  sure,  from  his  manner,  that  Felix  was  annoyed,  and 
this  was  as  nectar  to  his  youthful  spirit. 


HARRIET  VARIAN,  the  next  morning,  was  just 
bustling  out  of  the  hotel,  with  an  armful  of  books 
and  music  and  work,  to  go  over  to  the  cottage, 
when  she  was  confronted  by  Dorla,  whom  she  did  not  see 
till  within  a  few  inches  of  her. 

"  O,"  she  said,  pulling  herself  up,  a  little  confused. 
"  How  are  you  ?  Coming  to  see  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorla,  "  and  Miss  Florence  Estabrook." 

"  O,"  cried  Harriet,  rather  more  embarrassed.  "  That  is 
very  good  of  you,  Dorla,  I  am  sure.  We're  all  over  at  the 
lottage.  You'd  better  come  straight  over  with  me  now." 

While  they  walked  across  the  dusty  road,  Harriet  talked 
a  great  deal,  even  more  than  usual,  but  Dorla  did  not  even 
hear  her.  She  was  approaching  this  dreaded  moment  with 
ths  sort  of  feeling  young  martyrs  carry  to  the  stake.  A 
morning  call,  in  a  many-flounced  white  muslin  dress ;  but 
she  might  have  had  a  halo  round  her  head.  She  was  sub- 
mitting humbly  to  the  order  of  the  poor  tyrant  to  whom 
she  owed  obedience ;  she  was  going  to  pay  her  homage  t« 
the  woman  who  had  supplanted  her,  and  to  touch  her  hand 
wad  to  give  her  friendship  if  she  would  have  it,  and  her 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  205 

prayers  always,  always,  whether  she  cared  for  them  or  not 
All  this  was  the  highest  idea  of  duty  that  she  could  form 
She  hoped  it  would  be  accepted  as  an  atonement  for  her  sin 
which  looked  darker  and  more  shameful  than  ever  to  her 
She  desired  to  humble  herself  to  the  very  earth ;  to  punish 
herself  with  a  real  punishment ;  and  it  was  in  accomplish 
ment  of  this  desire  that  she  walked  beside  Harriet  acrosa 
Ihe  dusty  street  towards  the  shady,  shabby  little  cottage. 

Harriet  was  manifestly  ill  at  ease ;  but  the  manifestation 
was  losb  to  Dorla ;  she  heard  not  a  word  that  she  was  say- 
ing, but  followed  her  silently  through  the  little  gate. 

The  group  within  the  parlor  gave  no  idea  of  the  paradise 
that  Dorla  had  been  picturing ;  but  that,  too,  was  lost  to 
her.  She  was  in  a  sort  of  trance,  as  nearly  as  that  state 
can  be  reached  by  intense  exitement  long  continued,  arri- 
ving at  its  climax.  Felix  sat  in  a  lounging  attitude,  at  the 
door,  which  opened  upon  the  little  porch.  He  had  a  paper 
in  his  hand,  but  looked  moody  and  uninterested.  At  the 
piano,  opposite  the  door,  sat  Miss  Estabrook  with  a  very 
discontented  face,  and  at  the  farthest  window  was  Mrs. 
Varian,  with  a  lap  full  of  gay  colored  embroidery,  but  with 
a  novel  in  her  hand. 

Everyone  was  startled,  and  changed  attitude  and  expres- 
sion sharply,  as  Dorla  entered.  She  passed  Felix  with  a 
movement  of  her  head  that  showed  she  knew  he  was  there, 
but  she  did  not  look  at  him,  and  crossed  over  and  spoke  to 
Mrs.  Varian,  who  said,  flurriedly, 

"  My  dear  !  This  is  unexpected.  You  haven't  been  here 
in  such  a  time,  you  know !  "  Then,  without  answering,  she 
went  across  to  Miss  Estabrook,  who  had  arisen  and  whose 
face  was  a  little  flushed.  She  answered  Dorla's  salutation 
and  took  her  hand,  but  in  a  manner  that  was  missish  and 
pert,  in  contrast  with  the  action  of  the  other.  She  hardly 
knew  what  she  said.  There  was  not  much  to  say,  and  she 
tad  not  meant  to  say  much.  But  she  had  hoped  to  sets 
gomething  in  the  face  of  this  fancied  rival  that  she  could 


206  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

love — that  would  show  her  capable  of  understanding  that 
she  offered  her  her  friendship.  But  that  something  was  not 
there,  that  undsrstanding  did  not  dawn.  With  all  her  long 
ing  she  could  only  nee  a  very  pretty  woman,  young,  but  not 
soft  and  tender,  rather  hard  and  superficial,  and  withal  ill 
at  ease  and  almost  defiant. 

All  this  she  could  not  comprehend.  And  Felix  sat  beside 
the  door,  with  his  moody  now  almost  fiery  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  group.  Miss  Estabrook  sitting  even  on  the  piano  stool, 
looked  petite  and  unimpressive  opposite  her  visitor — modish, 
overdressed,  contrasted  with  her.  Dorla  looked  taller  than 
ever,  and  not  so  slight,  in  her  soft  white  ruffled  dress.  The 
Low  room  had  seemed  suffocating  to  her  as  she  came  into  it, 
and  she  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  held  it  by  her  side  as  she 
sat  on  the  old  haircloth  sofa,  opposite  her  rival. 

Slightly  bending  forward  towards  her,  Felix  saw  her  in 
profile ;  no  color  about  her,  even  her  hat  was  one  of  those 
white  chip  affairs  covered  with  tarlatan  and  without  a  flower 
or  ribbon.  Her  face  was  colorless,  she  was  probably  much 
less  beautiful  than  usual 

Harriet  felt  the  thunder  in  the  air  when  she  glanced  from 
her  to  Felix;  Madame  even  felt  that  something  must  be 
done.  Before  the  end  of  the  short  visit,  and  before  Dorla 
had  arisen,  Harriet  had  hurriedly  reviewed  the  situation, 
and  resolving  desperately  to  get  Felix  off,  had  said  to  him 
iotto  voce  something  about  some  bill  or  some  business  at  the 
hotel  which  she  wished  he  could  see  about  before  she  wrote 
her  letters.  It  is  not  certain  exactly  what  he  said  to  her  in 
answer  ;  the  answer  was  sotto  voce  too.  But  it  was  some- 
that  made  her  redden  very  much  and  look  as  much 
as  she  could  look.  She  had  done  her  little  possible, 
aad  now  the  ship  might  go  foundering  on,  she  felt  she  could 
not  be  responsible. 

Dorla,  strangely,  saw  and  felt  none  of  this  murky  and  elec- 
tri3  atmosphere,  being  too  much  absorbed  in  her  own  false 
new  of  things.  % 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  207 

AB  she  rose  to  go,  Mrs.  Varian  rose  also  and  said,  hastily 

"  Felix,  I  see  James  crossing  over  towards  the  stables, 
will  you  just  step  over  and  speak  to  him  about  that  harness, 
wid  show  him  what  you  mean  to  have  him  do  about  it  ?  Ho 
will  be  off  to  the  blacksmith's,  and  no  getting  hold  of  hiic 
again  all  the  morning." 

That  was  very  weak ;  but  even  sensible  women  do  weak 
things  when  they  are  driven  into  such  a  corner.  "Mrs. 
Rothermel  will  excuse  you,  I  am  sure,"  she  added,  flurriedly. 

"  I  am  sure  she  would  if  it  were  necessary,"  Felix  said, 
having  risen  also.  "  But  there  will  be  ample  time  to  speak 
to  James  when  he  comes  back  for  his  dinner." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  desperately,  "  tell  him 
I  want  to  speak  to  him  if  you  please.  There  have  been  no 
arrangements  made  about  the  afternoon ;  we  shall  be  disap- 
pointed in  our  drive.  You  know  we  want  the  horses  fully 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual." 

'*  Certainly,"  returned  Felix,  touching  sharply  a  bell  be- 
side him,  and  almost  before  the  reverberation  died  away,  the 
inaid  appeared.  "  Tell  James,  Mrs.  Varian  wants  to  speak 
to  him."  By  this  time  Dorla  had  begun  to  feel  the  sur- 
charged atmosphere;  she  had  said  good-bye  to  Miss  Esta 
brook,  and  looked  frightened  into  Mrs.  Variants  face,  and 
then  put  out  her  hand  to  Harriet. 

"  O,"  said  the  latter,  hurriedly,  "  I'll  go  over  with  you  to 
the  pony.  Where  was  it  that  you  left  her?  " 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  do  that,  the  SUE  is  very  hot," 
said  Felix,  "  I  will  put  Mrs.  Eothermel  in  hei  carriage." 

And  Harriet,  self-willed  as  she  was,  could  do  nothing  but 
Btand  back  and  say  disjointedly,  "  Well,  if  you  can,  that  is, 
\  won't  go,  of  course,  if  you  mean  to  ;  I  suppose  it  is  warm. 
Crood-bye  then,  Dorla,  you  must  come  again." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dorla,  faintly,  as  she  followed  Felix 
through  the  gate. 

Come  again !  O,  if  she  had  not  come  this  time.  What 
Dad  she  done.  What  strangely  mo\  ing,  changing  nv  orld  wa» 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

she  standing  in.  Why  must  she  make  such  terrible  mistakes, 
What  did  it  all  mean?  Something  was  very  very  wrong. 
They  crossed  the  dusty,  hot  little  street  in  silence,  Dorla 
not  lifting  her  white  dress,  Felix  not  putting  up  the  um- 
brella in  his  hand.  I  am  afraid  they  were  not  thinking  much 
about  such  things.  When  they  reached  the  sidewalk  oppo- 
site, Felix  said,  in  a  constrained  voice, 

"  I  hope  you  got  home  safely  last  night  ?  " 

Dorla  rather  caught  her  breath  and  said.  "  Yes,  and  oh, 
that  is  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  It  was  an  accident  my 
being  out  so  late.  T  should  have  been  at  home  by  half-past 
six,  but  something  happened  to  the  harness.  It  was  not  my 
fault  at  all.  I  hope  you  will  not  think  I  meant — that  is — I 
never  mean  to  do  what  isn't  right.  I  was  afraid  myself.  I 
did  not  want  to  be  out  any  more  than  you  could  want — I 
don't  mean  that  you  care — but  as  you  spoke  to  me  I  though* 
you  would  think  it  very  strange  that  I  should  do  it  just  the 
same  at  once." 

Poor  Dorla  !  It  would  have  been  a  great  deal  better  if 
she  had  not  come.  What  troubles  these  people,  all  conscience 
and  emotion,  do  get  into.  She  did  not  know  exactly  what, 
she  had  done,  but  she  felt  a  strange  unsettling  of  everything, 
and  a  sense  of  danger.  There  was  a  silence.  They  had 
nearly  reached  the  hotel  steps. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  drive  you  home  ?  "  said  Felix,  in  a 
low  tone,  but  such  a  tone.  Then  Dorla  knew  that  the  work 
was  all  undone,  that  the  battle  was  all  to  be  fought  over, 
and  that  she  had  fallen  back  in  the  cruel  toils  again.  How 
much  a  tone  can  say — how  inconsiderable  the  words.  Felix 
said  to  her  under  cover  of  those  seven  trifling  words,  that  he 
had  thrown  away  his  mask,  that  the  last  few  days  had  been 
all  deceit,  that  he  was  hungering  for  a  word  from  her,  for  a 
moment  with  her.  That  he  never  could  forget,  and  never 
meant  to  let  her  forget,  what  those  few  short  gay  days  had 
taught  them.  That  he  entreated  her  for  this  one  respite ; 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  209 

that  he  pleaded  for  this  one  morning's  heaven.  Poor  Dorla ! 
She  was  in  no  danger  of  not  understanding. 

"  Tim  is  driving  me,"  she  said,  when  she  could  command 
her  voice. 

The  pony  carriage  stood  a  little  distance  down  the  street, 
under  the  shade  of  some  trees.  They  both  saw  it,  and 
walked  down  towards  it  without  speaking  again.  But  what 
a  thick,  hot  silence ;  what  a  struggle  that  was  not  interpreted 
by  words.  Tim  was  nodding  over  the  reins,  but  he  sprang 
up  when  they  came  up  by  him,  and  turned  the  pony  off  that 
Dorla  might  get  in.  She  did  not  take  Felix's  hand  when 
she  got  in,  but  put  her  own  on  the  side  of  the  seat,  and 
stepped  in  quickly,  and  without  looking  at  him.  She  said 
something  that  might  have  been  good-bye,  as  they  drove  off. 
But  Felix  was  not  dissatisfied.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
madly  full  of  assurance,  and  of  triumph. 

And  now  began  an  epoch  in  his  life,  that  his  admiring 
historian  surely  would  suppress.  He  had,  till  this  time, 
kept  before  himself  some  idea  of  duty,  some  sentiment  of  re- 
spect for  what  the  world  might  think  of  her,  if  not  of  him. 
lie  had  striven  to  veil  the  feelings  with  which  she  had  in- 
spired him,  with  mistiness  and  vagueness  in  his  own  mind. 
He  had  been  very  wretched,  very  moody ;  but  he  had  not 
been  definite.  Now  he  was  definite.  Now  he  knew  what 
he  craved.  Now  he  stood  on  the  border  of  the  land  that  he 
meant  to  enter.  He  knew  that  this  woman  loved  him ;  that 
she  could  not  escape  from.  He  had  never  existed  before,  it 
peemed  to  him.  His  whole  life  looked  pale,  and  faint,  and 
Uke  a  play,  compared  to  this.  He  put  aside  every  con- 
sideration of  duty,  of  self-respect,  of  honor.  He  asked  only 
her.  He  knew  all  that  stood  between  them.  Not  the  pal- 
try man,  whom  he  disdained  to'  associate  in  his  thoughts 
with  her;  not  the  ostracism  of  society — that  looked  like 
nothing  to  him  at  his  mad  heigh*  of  passion.  Not  the  la* 
of  God.  Alas,  that  had  nover  had  great  weight  in  his  decis- 
ion*. Nothing  but  this  woman's  conscience,  her  religion, 


210  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

This  was  standing  between  them,  and  this  alone,  as  he 
looked  at  it.  How  to  overcome  it ;  how  to  reach  her 
through  that  panoply.  He  knew  she  was  not  a  strong 
woman,  as  strength  is  counted.  She  was  very  inexperi- 
enced ;  she  was  timid,  she  was  very  young.  She  had  before 
now  allowed  hersalf  to  be  led,  to  be  guided;  she  had  made 
great  mistakes.  He  was  too  insane  to  care  what  he  gave 
up,  what  disgrace  he  brought  upon  himself  by  his  pursuit, 
either  successful  or  a  failure,  and  too  selfish  to  reflect  upon 
the  fatal  injury  it  would  do  to  her,  in  any  case.  He  was 
not  new  at  selfishness.  He  had  been  taught  all  his  life  that 
it  was  the  thing  he  ought  to  be,  and  though  he  had  resisted 
it  in  small  things,  from  a  good  nature  and  from  amiability, 
still  it  had  governed  him  openly  in  the  great  matters  of  his 
life.  It  would  have  been  asking  too  much,  that  it  should 
not  have  been  at  the  helm  now. 

A  week  followed  this,  a  week  of  chagrin  and  alarm  to 
Harriet  and  Mrs.  Yarian,  of  scandal  and  eager  gossip 
among  the  lookers-on ;  of  terror  and  suffering  to  poor 
Dorla.  Florence  Estabrook  had  been  thrown  over  as  reck- 
lessly as  she  had  been  taken  up.  Felix  made  no  disguise  of 
his  indifference  to  her.  Harriet  dared  not  remonstrate,  she 
was  afraid  of  him.  One  interview  had  been  enough  for  her. 
"  This  wretched  complication  "  was  what  she  called  it  when 
she  talked  about  it  with  her  mother.  She  might  have  felt  a 
little  remorse  if  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  the  sentiment.. 
But  she  wasn't,  and  only  felt  out  of  patience  with  Dorla,  as 
the  cause  of  all  the  trouble  to  their  peace. 

"  What  did  she  marry  that  fool  of  a  fellow  for  !  "  she 
pettishly  exclaimed.  "  If  she  had  only  waited  another  year 
till  Felix  came  back,  she  might  have;  had  him  and  welcome. 
/  don't  care  how  he  marries  if  he  is  moderately  respect- 
able." 

"  And  doesn't  interfere  with  you  in  any  way,"  said  the 
tnother,  whose  heart,  what  there  was  of  it,  was  always  witt 
her  so  i. 


A  PERFECT  ADONTS. 

'  Very  likely  he  wouldn't  have  wanted  her  if  he  could 
have  had  her  though,"  Harriet  went  on. 

«  very  likely  not.     But  that  doesn't  alter  matters  now." 

"  I  only  wish  this  Estabrook  girl  was  off  our  hands.  H« 
has  treated  her  abominably  ;  what  will  people  say." 

"  She  brought  it  on  herself.  Who  asked  her  to  come 
Here  ?  "  said  the  hard  old  woman.  But  for  Dorla,  she  was 
a  little  sorry ;  the  poor  child  was  so  pretty,  and  so  gentle, 
she  had  always  liked  her,  and  she  knew  very  well  that  all 
the  fault  was  on  the  part  of  Felix.  It  was  rather  a  chagrin 
to  think  what  a  daughter  she  might  have  had  in  her.  For 
worldly  as  she  was,  she  knew  very  well  how  comfortable  and 
sweet,  good  pious  women  make  the  home  in  which  they 
happen  to  abide.  "  A  miserable  complication,"  that  was  all 
she  could  say  about  it.  "  Miserable  and  so  unnecessary." 

The  week  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Felix  worn  out  and 
baffled  by  his  ill  success  in  even  seeing  Dorla,  was  humbler 
by  many  degrees,  and  less  assured  than  when  he  parted 
from  her  at  the  step  of  the  pony  carriage,  in  the  hot  little 
village  street.  By  this  time,  George  came  to  his  aid.  He 
had  been  away,  and  Dorla  had  been  ill.  But  now  he  was  at 
home,  and  now  Dorla  was  creeping  about  the  house,  pale  and 
dull,  but  still  able  to  be  out  of  bed.  There  were  tickets  ar- 
rived for  theatricals  at  one  of  the  hotels.  George  said  that 
bhey  must  go.  It  was  made  a  matter  of  obedience,  and 
Dorla  went. 

The  evening  was  warm  and  damp,  the  room  in  which  the 
Uitertainment  was  held,  was  low  and  close.  A  great  many 
people  were  packed  into  it.  In  fifteen  minutes  after  the 
play  began,  Dorla  was  faint  and  frightened  at  herself.  It  is 
^ery  unpleasant  to  feel  you  are  going  to  die,  at  any  time,  but 
most  of  all,  when  you  are  the  central  atom  of  a  closely 
wedged  multitude  of  people.  And  the  weaker  you  grow  the 
nore  impossible  seems  the  feat  of  getting  pasfc  them,  or 
jioving  them  out  of  their  inertia.  Dorla  wasn't  thinking  of 
Felix,  or  of  what  the  people  would  think  about  her  if  she 


212  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

fainted,  or  died  outright  in  their  midst.  She  was  ignomird- 
ously  and  grovellingly  thinking  of  herself,  and  of  her  horrible 
sensations ;  of  the  way  in  which  her  heart  seemed  stopping, 
of  the  suffocating  feeling  of  her  chest;  the  cold  sweat  that 
was  breaking  out  around  her  mouth  and  forehead.  She 
began  to  feel  a  good  deal  worse,  when  she  found  that  George 
had  moved  away,  and  was  beyond  the  reach  of  her  voice, 
And  that  ?he  was  surrounded  by  strangers.  It  was  beyond 
bearing  to  die  this  way,  and  she  surely  thought  she  was  going 
to  die.  (She  was  young,  and  had  never  fainted  before.) 

About  this  time  some  one  forced  open  a  window  near  her, 
and  the  fresh  air  saved  her  for  the  time.  The  lady  next  her 
offered  her  sal-volatile,  seeing  her  look  pale,  and  that  did  her 
good  for  a  little  while.  Beyond  that,  nobody  took  much 
notice  of  her.  They  had  come  late  and  were  in  rather  an  ob- 
scure part  of  the  room,  (if  any  part  of  it  could  be  called 
other  than  obscure.)  At  any  rate  they  had  taken  seats 
somewhat  in  the  rear  of  the  people  who  lived  at  the  hotels 
and  were  on  the  ground  before  them.  The  play  was  about 
as  vivacious  as  such  plays  generally  are.  Most  people,  look- 
ing at  it  in  cold  blood,  would  have  thought  it  rather  an  ill 
measure,  to  pay  two  dollars,  and  sit  for  an  hour  and  a  half 
in  this  stifling  atmosphere,  for  the  privilege  of  seeing  Miss 
Grayson  with  her  back  hair  down,  and  being  definitely  as- 
sured that  Miss  Whymple's  ankles  were  very  neatly  turned. 
Of  course  Mr.  Davis  was  in  tights  and  Mr.  Oliver  in  a 
powdered  wig ;  but  that  even  the  most  enthusiastic  did  no4 
count.  The  back  hair  and  the  ankles  were  all  that  could  be 
reckoned  seriously ;  the  acting  was  very  poor  indeed. 

Dorla  did  not  know  at  all  what  it  was  all  about.  She  did 
not  listen,  except  to  hope  that  it  was  nearly  over.  When  it 
was  about  midway,  and  because  of  the  opening  of  the  window, 
and  the  salts,  she  was  feeling  rather  better,  there  came  a 
messenger  to  her,  edging  his  way  through  the  crowd,  to  say 
that  George  had  been  called  away  for  an  hour  or  two  by 
Borne  one  on  business  fr:>m  Port  Jervis;  that  he  would  b» 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  218 

back  as  soon  as  possible,  and  that  she  must  wait  for  him  if 
ae  should  be  late.  That  was  the  last  straw.  She  had  been 
counting  the  minutes  till  he  should  come  back  and  get  her 
out  of  this  frightful  place.  It  might  be  hours ;  she  knew 
what  his  "  soon  as  possible "  had  sometimes  been.  She 
might  be  dead  before  he  came.  She  began  to  feel  worse,  so 
much  worse.  This  was  the  effect  of  her  alarm  in  great  de- 
gree, but  also  the  good  air  that  had  come  in  through  the 
briefly  opened  window,  had  all  been  used  up,  and  the  room 
was  growing  very  close  indeed.  Would  nobody  come  to  help 
her  out  of  the  crowd  ?  She  half  rose,  and  gave  a  wild  look 
around.  The  seats  were  jammed  as  close  as  they  could  be 
together.  People  were  standing  with  their  backs  against  the 
wall.  People  were  putting  their  heads  in  at  the  windows ; 
all  gaping  at  the  mild  pageant  presented  on  the  stage.  She 
saw  no  one  that  she  knew ;  but  Felix,  standing  moodily  with 
his  arms  crossed,  just  behind  her,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her, 
mounting  guard,  saw  her  and  her  look  of  illness,  and  made 
his  way  quickly  to  her.  When  she  saw  him,  she  felt  a  great 
deal  nearer  dying  than  she  had  done  before,  and  sank  down 
in  her  chair  so  white  and  trembling,  that  the  lady  next  her 
thrust  the  salts  again  upon  her,  and  tried  to  ask  her  what 
was  to  be  done.  But  Felix  made  a  way  fiercely  for  her 
through  the  crowd,  scattered  the  people  without  ceremony 
from  their  chairs,  and  led  her  from  the  room.  There  was  a 
side  door  which  he  forced  them  to  open,  and  so  she  was 
spared  making  her  exit  with  much  publicity.  Only  two  or 
three  persons  who  knew  her,  saw  her  go  out,  white  and  ill,  on 
Felix's  arm.  They  elevated  their  eyebrows,  and  thought  she 
was  doing  it  on  purpose.  Probably  they  had  not  tried  to  do 
it  ever,  themselves,  or  they  would  not  have  thought  it  was 
BO  easy.  Whatever  else  people  can  do  on  purpose,  they  can't 
grow  white  and  yellow,  and  grey-green  on  purpose,  at  least, 
not  while  you  are  looking  at  them.  When  they  got  outside, 
in  the  cool  air  and  the  dim  starlight,  Felix  said,  "  Do  you 
fe«l  better?" 


214  ^  PERFECT  ADON18. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  struggling  to  speak.     "  Get  me 
*here — I  want  to  lie  down — I  am  very  ill — " 

Then  Felix  drew  her  arm  through  his  and  took  a  firm 
grasp  of  her  hand,  for  he  felt  afraid  she  was  going  to  fall 
upon  the  grass,  over  which  they  were  making  their  way. 

"  If  you  can  get  as  far  as  that  piazza,  you  will  be  all 
right,"  he  said.  "  See,  take  hold  of  my  arm ;  go  slowly, 
you  will  soon  be  better.  Don't  be  frightened,  it's  only  a 
step  more." 

When  they  got  upon  the  piazza,  (that  of  an  adjoining  cot- 
tage), Felix  led  her  to  a  chair.  She  sank  down  in  it,  lean- 
ing her  head  back. 

"  Can't  you  get  somebody,"  she  said.     (( I  want  water." 

Felix  hurried  into  the  house,  but  everyone  was  gone  to 
gape  at  the  mild  pageant.  A  pitcher  of  ice-water  and  some 
glasses  were  in  the  hall  however.  He  brought  some  water 
to  her  in  a  glass,  and  when  she  had  taken  it,  she  was  revived 
a  little. 

"  It  wab  the  air  of  that  place,"  he  said.  "  I  never  felt 
anything  like  it  in  my  life  before.  I  wonder  all  the  people 
are  not  carried  out  insensible." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorla,  drawing  a  long  breath,  and  leaning 
exhausted  back  in  the  large  chair.  (<  Yes,  it  was  a  dreadful 
atmosphere." 

She  began  to  feel  a  great  deal  better,  but  even  then  she 
was  too  much  occupied  with  her  recent  sensations  and  the 
possibility  of  their  return,  to  think  a  great  deal  about  Felix. 
The  light  from  the  window  by  which  they  were  sitting  fell 
upon  her  face,  and  he  watched  her  silently.  This  was  the 
first  and  only  time,  since  they  had  danced  together  that  last 
flight,  that  she  had  not  shunned  him  and  seemed  frightened. 
The  change  was  a  Aystery  to  him,  but  he  took  it  as  a  favor 
able  sign.  Though  she  did  not  seem  to  be  thinking  of  him, 
At  least  she  was  not  fearing  him.  He  made  a  feint  of  calling 
for  some  one  up  and  down  the  halls ;  then  coming  and  sit- 
ting down,  said  nonchalantly  : 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

'*  Some  one  will  soon  be  here ;  you  will  feel  better  if  you 
lit  quietly  and  rest  for  a  few  minutes." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  placidly.  She  was  thinking  what  heaven 
it  was  not  to  have  that  hideous,  hideous  sensation  about  her 
chest  arid  heart. 

"  It  is  surprising,"  said  Felix  in  his  coramon-placest  tone, 
"  what  people  will  endure,  if  they  think  they  are  amused. 
That  room  has  been  packed  full  of  human  beings  for  the  last 
hour  and  a  quarter,  and  they  will  endure  the  torture  for  half 
an  hour  more  at  least.  And  all  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  what  indeed  !  "  sighed  Dorla,  drawing  another  long, 
long  breath. 

"  Could  you  imagine  anything  more  insipid  than  the  act- 
ing of  Miss  Whymple.  And  Miss  Grayson  was  only  a  shade 
better." 

"  I  didn't  hear  what  it  was  all  about,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
believe  I  even  know  the  name  of  the  play.  I  felt  so  ill  from 
the  very  first." 

"  You  are  better  now  ?  "  asked  Felix,  looking  at  her 
keenly. 

11  Yes,"  she  returned,  uneasily.  She  was  too  much  better 
to  be  placid  any  longer.  "  Yes,  I  am  better,  and  I  think  I 
—  I — will  go  back  now,"  and  she  half  rose. 

l(  May  I  ask  where  ?  "  said  Felix  in  a  cold  voice.  He  had 
been  sitting  between  her  and  the  window,  and  he4did  not 
rise.  She  sat  down  again  confusedly,  and  did  not  answer. 

"  Are  you  so  anxious  to  see  the  end  of  the  play  ?  "  he  said 
cynically.  "  I  have  seen  it  better  played  a  dozen  times  in 
my  life,  and  I  will  recount  you  the  plot,  and  we  shall  have 
better  air,  if  you  will  be  contented  to  sit  here." 

"  I  don't  care  for  the  play,"  she  said  faintly  (and  not  very 
wisely ;  but  who  can  be  wise  always.)  "  But  I  think  I  had 
better  go." 

This  time  she  got  up  upon  her  feet,  and  pulled  her  cloak 
iround  her,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did. 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  said  Felix  in  a  low  concentrated  voice, 


216  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  will  you  sit  down  a  moment  ?  I  want  to  say  one  word 
and  then  I  will  take  you  anywhere  you  wish." 

She  sat  down  in  her  chair  trembling  all  over.  Felix  ir 
his  angry  passion  did  not  see  this ;  he  went  on  speaking  in 
thick  agitated  tones.  "  I  want  to  say  this  to  you,  if  you 
•vill  listen  to  it ;  I  understand  you  perfectly ;  it  is  not  neces- 
sary for  you  to  show  me  any  further  how  you  feel,  that  is  all 
accepted.  I  only  ask  that  you  will  cease  to  treat  me  in  thin 
sort  of  way.  What  have  I  done  ?  My  offence  has  been  in- 
voluntary. I  am  not  happy — that  is  not  my  fault.  Need 
I  promise  you  I  will  never  say  a  word  you  would  not  wish 
to  hear  ?  Only  let  this  strange  state  of  things  be  at  an  end. 
I  am  human — I  am  a  man — I  cannot  bear  this  any  longer — 
you  ask  too  much  of  me — " 

But  this  foolish  incoherent  speech  came  to  an  abrupt  con- 
clusion. Dorla  had  not  looked  at  him.  She  only  looked 
away,  but  over  her  face  passed  such  a  frightful  change  that 
Felix  catching  sight  of  it,  started  forward  and  stayed  his 
angry,  unwise  words. 

"  You  are  ill,"  he  said,  in  a  changed,  awe-struck  voice. 
"  What  have  I  done  ?  I  am  a  brute." 

For  that  deadly,  grey-green  look  came  over  her  features, 
and  they  looked  sharp  and  thin,  and  her  head  was  sinking 
back  upon  the  chair. 

"  Ge£  somebody,"  she  tried  to  say,  (t  I  believe  I  am  very 
ill,"  and  then  she  said  and  thought  no  more,  poor  child,  for 
that  hard  time  at  least. 

"  Somebody  "  came  by  that  moment;  and  it  was  not  the 
work  of  many  seconds  to  get  a  doctor  and  half  a  dozen 
women  round  her.  But  in  those  seconds,  while  he  stood 
alone  beside  her,  Felix  learned  the  text  of  a  great  and  search- 
ing lesson.  Not  all  that  she  could  have  said  or  done,  could 
have  served  poor  Dorla  so  well,  as  that  fainting  fit.  Such 
object- teaching  reaches  where  words  cannot.  It  is  easy  to 
lay,  (t  this  is  killing  me ;  "  but  when  you  see  that  play  of 
death,  you  believe  it.  It  was  nothing  but  a  fainting  fit  afbex 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  217 

all ;  though  the  doctor  said  it  was  a  pretty  serious  matter, 
and  she  would  need  much  care.  He  stayed  by  her  an  hour 
or  two  after  she  came  out  of  it,  and  would  not  hear  of  her 
being  taken  home  that  night.  When  George  returned  from 
his  business  matter,  he  found  Dorla  established  in  a  room  ir> 
the  cottage,  with  Mrs.  Bishop  sitting  by  her,  Mrs.  Varian 
anxiously  pacing  up  and  down  on  the  piazza,  and  the  doctor 
walking  away  accompanied  by  Felix.  What  did  it  all  mean  : 
They  explained  to  him  how  hot  the  room  was  where  the  the- 
atricals had  been,  reminded  him  how  delicate  and  prone  to 
faint  Dorla  had  been  for  the  last  few  days ;  and  how  serious 
a  matter  the  doctor  had  assured  them  it  might  be  if  she  were 
lot.  kept  from  all  excitement  and  fatigue.  Still  he  did  not 
understand  it,  and  went  into  the  room  unprepared  to  find 
her  looking  as  she  did,  and  of  course  startled  her  by  his 
alarm.  She  was  not  thinking  about  him,  or  anybody  or  any- 
thing save  her  own  suffering,  but  it  almost  sent  her  back 
into  unconsciousness  to  see  how  shocked  he  was.  Mrs. 
Bishop  made  him  go  away,  and  stayed  with  her  all  night. 

By  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  she  was  well  enough  to 
go  home.  Harriet  came  to  the  carriage  and  Mrs.  Bishop 
was  putting  her  carefully  in  it,  while  George  stood  by,  look- 
ing much  troubled  and  a  little  injured.  It  was  a  dull  after- 
noon, grey  and  chill ;  it  would  have  been  much  less  dreary 
if  it  had  rained ;  the  weight  of  dampness  in  the  atmosphere 
rppressed  one  like  a  coming  trouble.  Harriet  pulled  her 
cloak  around  her  shoulders. 

"It's  like  November,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you're  well 
wrapped  up,  Dorla." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Dorla,  faintlv,  anxious  to  get  away. 

"  Mamma  sent  her  love  to  you.  She  thought  it  would 
only  trouble  you,  if  she  came  over  to  see  you.  She  thinks 
you  ought  to  be  so  quiet.  But  she  wilt  be  down  to  see  you 
in  a  day  or  two.  Felix  is  gone  away,"  she  said,  turning  to 
George,  "  and  we  feel  quite  desolate." 


218  4  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

"  Your  brother  gone  ?  "  said  George.     "  WLy,  when 
that  ?     I  thought  I  saw  him  here  last  night." 

"  O,  yes,  he  only  went  this  morning." 

"  Wasn't  it  rather  sudden  ?  "  George  inquired. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  exactly.     Possibly  it  was." 

"  He  is  coming  back  again  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  very  possibly,  sometime  before  we  go 
away." 

"  And  where  has  he  gone  ?  "  asked  George  with  interest. 
Felix  was  the  object  of  his  high  esteem. 

"  Canada  and  the  Lakes,  I  believe,"  said  Harriet,  with 
sisterly  indifference. 

"  Good  people,  it  strikes  me  while  you  are  chatting,  poor 
Dorla  is  getting  cold,"  cried  Mrs.  Bishop,  anxious  to  make 
an  end  of  the  matter,  watching  her  patient's  whitening 
cheeks. 

"  Come,  George,"  said  Dorla,  faintly,  "  I  want  to  get 
home  as  quickly  as  I  can." 

"  By  the  way,"  cried  Harriet,  just  as  they  were  starting. 
"To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  our  Brewery  expedition. 
Just  a  year  ago  to-night,  since  that  memorable  occasion. 
Do  you  remember,  Dorla  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  answered  Dorla. 

"  Ha,  ha,  how  many  things  have  come  to  pass  since  then !  " 
cried  Harriet,  while  Mrs.  Bishop,  with  half-concealed  impa- 
tience, called  out,  "  Mr.  Hothermel,  if  you  don't  drive  on, 
Dorla  must  get  out." 

Animated  by  this  recollection,  that  dreary  afternoon,  as 
Dorla  was  lying  on  the  sofa  by  the  window  of  her  room, 
George  brought  to  her  a  letter  which  he  had  taken  from  his 
desk. 

"  Here's  the  first  letter  you  ever  wrote  me,  Dorla,"  he 
said,  with  a  little  touch  of  sentiment.  "  See,  I  had  put  it 
away  among  my  treasures." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  was  worth  it,"  she  answered,  with  ft 
lickly  feeling  of  contempt  for  him  and  for  herself. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  219 

"  Yes,  just  a  year  ago  to-day,  as  Harriet  said,"  he  went  on, 
tpening  the  letter. 

"  A  year  ago  to-day !  "  exclaimed  Dorla,  flushing  and  put- 
ting out  her  hand  for  it.  "  I  never  wrote  to  you  till — till 
we  were  engaged." 

"  O,  you  forget,"  said  George.  "  The  note  you  sent  rat*—  - 
ubout  going  to  the  Brewery.  I  never  shall  forget  it..  1^ 
*vas  the  happiest  day  of  all  my  life." 

Dorla  took  the  note  in  her  hand,  recognizing  the  pearl 
colored  paper,  and  her  own  monogram ;  and  alas,  her  own. 
name  too,  and  Harriet's  large  and  commonplace  handwriting. 

Her  eye  passed  over  it  again  and  again,  and  a  hard  and 
bitter  feeling  came  into  her  heart.  This  was  the  way  in 
which  "  young  Rothermel  "  had  been  secured  for  the  Brew- 
ery festivity ;  and  the  way  in  which  her  life's  misery  had 
been  begun. 

At  last  she  handed  it  back  to  George,  and  said  coldly, 
'*  don't  trouble  yourself  to  keep  it  any  longer,  for  I  didn't 
write  it." 

"  You  didn't  write  it,"  he  exclaimed  surprised,  looking  at 
it  carefully.  "  Why,  that  is  very  true,  I  haven't  looked  at 
it  since  I  have  known  your  writing.  Who  did  write  it, 
pray?  It's  in  your  name,  you  see." 

"  Yes,  I  see  it  is,"  she  answered  with  a  languid  scorn. 
"  But  that  is  Harriet  Varian's  hand." 

"  Is  that  the  way  young  women  do,  writing  each  other's 
notes,  and  putting  people  on  wrong  scents  ?  " 

"  It  seems  it  is  the  way  some  young  women  do,"  said 
Dorla,  turning  her  face  down  on  the  pillow,  and  pressing 
her  lips  close  together. 


|  AN  AD  A  and  the  Lakes.    That  was  all  very  well; 
but  Canada  and  the  Lakes  do  not  last  very  long  if 
you  are  travelling  as  if  you  were  a  fugitive  from 
justice.     Felix  had  made  up  his  mind  what  route  to  take  in 


220  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

the  first  fervor  of  his  generous  resolution.  Nothing  could 
have  turned  him  from  it ;  he  went  to  the  furthest  "  point  of 
Interest "  that  he  had  laid  down  for  himself.  But  he  had 
not  bargained  with  himself  how  he  should  do  it.  And 
the  further  he  found  himself  from  the  night  of  that  gener- 
ous resolution,  the  more  did  he  neglect  its  spirit,  while  ad- 
hering to  its  letter.  He  travelled  day  and  night ;  he  turned 
not  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left,  save  as  the  right  hand  or 
the  left  was  laid  down  in  his  programme.  Like  a  man 
blind  and  deaf  to  nature,  he  sped  through  its  richest  ex- 
panses, moody,  self-contained,  unresting. 

And  at  the  end  of  ten  days  he  found  himself  back  in  New 
York,  in  the  great  vacant  house,  with  heat  outside  and  si- 
lence within.  Then  began  a  miserable  conflict  with  himself, 
which  he  endured  for  just  five  days — a  long  battle  for  a 
man  who  had  always  done  as  he  wanted  to  before.  Why 
should  he  not  go  to  Milford  ?  At  least  for  a  day  or  two. 
He  need  not  go  near  the  Rothermels ;  he  should  not  go  near 
the  Rothermels.  He  would  just  run  up  and  see  his  mother 
for  a  day  or  two ;  settle  about  their  movements  for  the  rest 
of  the  season,  bring  away  his  horse,  and  go  somewhere  else 
till  the  hot  weather  suffered  him  to  come  back  to  town. 

And  so  at  the  end  of  the  five  days'  battle,  he  found  him- 
self again  in  Milford.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  away  for  a 
year  or  two.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  arrived, 
after  six  o'clock ;  no  one  was  in  the  shabby,  shady  cottage. 
He  went  to  his  room,  and  dressed  himself,  deliberately  and 
leisurely.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  done  anything 
deliberately  and  leisurely  since  he  went  away.  Now  he 
beg-in  to  feel  as  if  there  was  a  cessation  of  that  desperate 
rushing  haste.  The  evening  was  very  warm.  When  he  was 
dressed,  he  walked  about  the  premises  till  he  found  his 
mother's  maid.  Mrs.  Varian  was  driving,  she  said.  Misa 
Harriet,  with  a  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  had  walked 
down  to  the  Bluff.  All  were  well.  They  were  not  expect 
ing  Mr.  Varian.  Then  Felix  walked  over  to  the  hotel  and 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  221 

got  his  tea,  still  leisurely,  as  a  man  who  has  reached  the 
"  point  of  interest  "  in  his  journey  and  has  no  further  need 
for  haste. 

After  tea  he  sauntered  towards  the  Bluff.  The  rest  of 
Milford  had  sauntered  thither  too.  The  evening  was  lovely  s 
the  sky  full  of  beautiful  sunset  tints.  He  felt  cool  ai*d 
fresh  himself;  expectant,  but  not  excited.  He  should  not 
%ee  Dorla,  that  was  impossible ;  but  in  some  way  he  should 
hear  of  her  before  he  slept.  Before  he  reached  the  Bluff, 
he  saw  his  mother's  carriage  standing  by  the  side  of  the 
road.  Mrs.  Yarian,  who  never  trusted  herself  for  many 
minutes  on  damp  grass  or  in  night  air,  was  doubtless  won 
by  the  warmth  and  beauty  of  the  evening,  to  one  of  the  seats 
that  overlook  the  river,  and  he  should  meet  her  there. 
There  were  one  or  two  light  shawls  in  the  carriage,  but  no 
person.  Felix  walked  slowly  across  the  wide,  grassy  space 
that  tops  the  Bluff.  How  charming  a  scene  he  was  approach- 
ing. Gay  groups  of  people  stood  and  sat  about.  The  river 
far  below,  and  winding  away  in  the  distance,  was  pink  and 
pearl  with  the  reflection  from  the  sky.  The  fields  and  woods 
on  the  other  shore  were  still  yellow  with  the  sunset ;  the 
point  of  headland  where  the  river  turned,  was  deep  in  even- 
ing shadow.  It  was  a  wide,  calm,  lovely  picture.  The  air 
came  cool  and  soft  from  off  the  river ;  there  was  a  sound  of 
pleasant  voices  and  of  laughing.  Some  children  were  play- 
ing about  the  edge  of  the  bank ;  the  three  or  four  benches 
were  all  occupied,  but  some  people  were  sitting  on  shawls 
upon  the  grass,  and  some  were  standing  up.  Felix  ap- 
proached, unnoticed  by  the  various  groups  ;  for  the  moment 
every  one  was  looking  at  a  raft  upon  the  river,  guided  by  a 
woman  Pausing  a  little  back  from  the  nearest  bench, 
Felix  glanced  about  him.  Not  three  feet  from  whers  b« 
stood,  sat  Dorla ;  lovely,  calm,  and  smiling,  watching  with 
:he  others  the  movements  of  the  raft.  Beside  her  sat  his 
nother;  around  her  stood  two  or  three  gentlemen. 

His  first  feeling,  no,  his  second  (for  his  first  was  only  the 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

sudden  intoxication  of  surprise),  was  angry  chagrin  that  he 
had  stayed  away  so  long,  and  that  she  was  so  soon  restored, 
and  so  surely  cured  by  his  most  generous  absence.  She  had 
never  looked  lovelier — paler,  but  without  that  harassed, 
worn  look  that  had  pursued  him  so.  "  I  might  have  saved 
myself  the  trouble,"  he  thought,  biting  his  mustache.  A" 
that  moment  some  one  spied  him. 

"Mr.  Variant" 

"Felix!" 

And  he  was  the  centre  of  all  eyes.  While  he  spoke  to 
every  one,  and  kissed  his  mother,  and  answered  Harriet's 
hundred  questions,  he  lost  not  one  of  the  changes  that  took 
place  on  Dorla's  face.  She  grew  steadily,  surely  paler  for  a 
moment ;  then  the  color  came  in  spots  and  flecks  about  her 
face  and  throat.  She  tried  to  answer  the  gentleman  who 
was  standing  by  her,  but  her  voice  was  not  very  steady,  nor 
her  words  very  ready.  The  gentleman  was  a  stranger,  and 
rather  a  distinguished  looking  man.  Felix  had  no  mercy  on 
her,  and  stood  near  her,  overhearing  and  agitating  her  by 
standing  there.  He  was  bitterly  pleased  to  see  her  agita 
tion,  and  as  bitterly  jealous  of  the  good-looking,  unoffending 
man.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  chattering  and  talking  on 
all  sides  of  him,  but  by  some  magnified  sense,  he  managed 
to  keep  up  with  it,  and  do  his  part  in  it,  and  yet  not  lose  a 
word  of  hers.  Pretty  soon  a  soft  breeze  from  the  river,  a 
little  less  warm  than  its  predecessors,  roused  Mrs.  Varian 
to  her  duty. 

*'  It  is  surely  damp,"  she  said,  getting  up  heavily  with 
the  help  of  Felix's  arm  "  Dorla,  come,  my  child.  This  is 
(\iS  first  time  you  have  been  out  for  a  fortnight.  A  pretty 
piece  of  business,  sitting  here  after  sundown,  as  ill  as  you 
have  been.  Mrs.  Rothermel  will  never  let  you  drive  with 
me  again,  if  I  don't  watch  you  better." 

Dorla  rose  with  a  sense  of  much  relief,  and  followed  Mrs. 
Varian  and  Felix  at  a  few  paces  distance.  The  distin- 
guished looking  man  was  only  too  happy  to  walk  beside  hei 


A  PERFECT  ADONI&  223 

lo  the  carriage.  Many  eyes  followed  them  as  ;hey  left  the 
bank,  and  many  whispered  comments,  scarcely  restrained  by 
the  presence  of  Harriet  Varian,  who  was  a  little  silent  for 
once  in  her  diffuse  career. 

"  "Yhat  a  mercy  Florence  Estabrook  has  gone  away,"  she 
thought.  That  that  young  person  was  got  rid  of,  gave  her 
cause  to  hope  things  might  improve  if  one  gave  them  time 
enough.  But  what  could  have  impelled  Felix  to  come  back 
so  soon. 

Meanwhile,  Felix  had  put  his  mother  in  the  carriage,  and 
was  waiting  for  Dorla  and  her  companion  to  come  up. 

"  It's  such  a  nice  evening,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Yarian,  as 
they  waited,  "  you'd  better  drive  a  little  further.  It's  all 
stuff  about  the  dampness,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  be  frank." 

"  It's  not  stuff  at  all,"  said  his  mother,  very  seriously. 
"That  girl's  extremely  delicate,  and  needs  the  greatest 
care." 

Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders,  glancing  towards  Dorla,  who 
had  stopped  to  speak  to  some  one.  "  A  little  further  drive 
won't  hurt  her." 

"  Well,  possibly  we  may  go — but  mind,  Felix,  don't  go 
with  us.  You  know  as  well  as  I,  that  this  sort  of  thing 
won't  do.  But  here  they  come.  Well,  Dorla!  (mind, 
Felix,  what  I  say,)  you  shouldn't  stop  to  speak  to  any  ono 
on  the  damp  grass.  Who  were  those  girls,  my  dear  ?  O, 
the  Whymples  ?  Think  of  my  not  knowing  them.  They 
mast  have  new  dresses,  I  am  sure.  Get  in,  my  child,  get 
in;  the  grass  is  damp, whatever  they  may  say." 

So  Dorla  got  in,  and  her  cavalier  bowed  himself  off,  and 
Mrs,  Yarian  saying  carelessly,  "  I  suppose,  Felix,  there's 
QO  use  in  asking  you,"  gave  the  sign  to  the  coachman  to  ga 

m. 

t(  No  use,  unless  you  wait  for  me,"  said  Felix,  salmly. 
"  Stop  a  moment,  James  ;  there,"  shutting  the  carriage  dooi 
rith  a  defiant  snap,  as  he  took  his  seat  vis-it-vis  to  Mra 
Varian,  "now  JDU  may  go  on." 


224  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

Mrs.  Yarian  frowned  darkly,  but  her  son  did  not  permit 
himself  to  be  affected  by  it. 

"  The  river  road  ?  "  James  would  like  to  know,  with  two 
white  cotton  fingers  in  contact  with  his  hat. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  no,  I  think  not.  Dorla,  my  dear,  you 
can  drive  a  little  further,  can't  you  ?  " 

uNo,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Yarian,"  Dorla  said,  gathering 
voice.  "  I  am  a  little  tired,  I  think.  If  you  don't  mind 
leaving  me  at  home." 

So  James  has  his  directions,  and  the  horses'  heads  are 
turned. 

"  It  is  well  to  be  prudent,"  says  Mrs.  Yarian,  secretly 
pleased  that  Felix  has  not  had  his  way  for  once. 
"  And  there  is  a  sort  of  chill  creeping  through  the  air." 

"  The  air  is  like  velvet,  and  not  a  particle  of  dew  will  fall 
to-night;  but  if  Mrs.  Rothermel  is  tired,  that  is  another 
question." 

"  I  think,  Felix,  you  grow  worse-mannered  every  day," 
exclaimed  his  mother,  pacified.  She  never  seemed  so  well 
satisfied  with  him  as  when  he  was  a  little  brutal ;  or,  as  they 
say  in  novels,  "  masterful." 

Felix  bowed,  and  with  the  bow  dismissed  the  subject 
finally,  (( I  am  sorry  you  have  not  been  well,"  he  said  to 
Dorla.  lf  I  thought  when  I  first  saw  you  that  you  were 
looking  much  improved." 

"  Oh,  I  am  better,"  she  said,  uneasily,  (( I  do  very  well  if 
only  I  keep  quiet.  Didn't  you  like  your  journey- — I  mean — 
did  you  stay  as  long  as  you  meant  to  stay — that  is — I  mean 
— I  understood  you  were  going  to  stay  a  month  or  two—-" 

Poor  Dorla  did  not  know  what  she  meant  to  say,  and  had 
said  what  she  did  not  mean  to,  evidently,  but  that  was  not 
her  fault,  and  no  one  could  blame  her;  for  Felix,  jealous 
and  angry,  was  wickedly  self-possessed  and  bent  on  making 
up  for  his  mistaken  generosity. 

"  Like  my  journey  ?  Oh,  yes,  in  a  way.  Your  saints  like 
their  hnir  cloth,  don't  they  ?  I  am  sorry  it  has  seemed  sc 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  225 

short  a  time  to  every  one  but  me.  For  my  part,  I  don't 
mind  saying,  it  seems  to  me  a  long  while  since  I  went  away 
from  Milford." 

"  Nobody  said  it  had  seemed  short,"  cried  his  mother, 
with  impatience.  "  Only  when  a  man  bids  his  family  good- 
bye for  a  month,  and  comes  back  in  a  fortnight,  it's  natural 
they  should  be  surprised  to  see  him." 

"  Well ;  only  let  them  be  civil  to  him  when  he  comes. 
He  is  not  to  be  blamed  if  he  has  overrated  his  strength.  II 
is  not  possible  to  be  always  what  we'd  like  to  be,"  returned 
Felix,  with  a  malicious  determination  to  say  before  his 
mother  what  he  would  not  have  dared  perhaps  to  say  with- 
out her. 

"  Felix,  you  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself,"  she  saidj 
hotly  and  bluntly.  And  then  there  was  a  silence.  That 
was  perhaps  the  wisest  thing  that  had  been  said  that  even- 
ing ;  nothing  else  could  have  ended  matters  better.  Felix 
could  say  nothing  more ;  Dorla  was  as  wretched  and  uncom- 
fortable before  as  it  was  possible  to  be ;  and  this  added  very 
little  to  what  was  already  a  full  cup.  The  carriage  rolled  on 
"or  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Then 
Mrs.  Varian  forced  herself  to  speak.  What  she  said  waa 
something  about  the  scenery, — some  commonplace  about  the 
river  at  this  hour.  Felix  said  nothing ;  and  Dorla,  in  a 
humble,  agitated  voice  that  ought  to  have  touched  him,  tried 
to  answer  ner  and  carry  on  the  commonplace.  The  voice 
and  effort  touched  the  mother,  if  they  did  not  move  the 
son;  and  after  a  moment  she  said  warmly,  and  rather 
abruptly : 

"  I  shall  come  for  you  to  drive  with  me  soon  again,  my 
dear,  if  you  will  go  with  me.  I  always  like  to  have  you ; 
you're  not  like  Harriet,  forever  fuming  for  a  new  excite- 
ment. You  suit  me  better  than  most  people,  with  your  nice, 
quiet  little  ways. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dorla,  looking  down,  with  sudden 
tears  "veiling  up  into  her  eyes.  For  into  her  mind  came, 


226  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

and  into  the  minds  of  Felix  and  his  mother  came,  as  soon 
as  this  was  spoken,  the  thought  of  what  might  have  been; 
of  what  should  have  been.  Strange  that  they  could  toucb 
nothing  but  edged  tools  to-night.  Another  silence,  during 
which  all  these  three  people  thought,  in  his  or  her  own  way, 
of  the  companionship  and  pleasure  which  had  been  made  im- 
possible. 

Not  knowing  that  the  others  were  thinking  of  the  same 
thing,  Mrs.  Yarian  said,  following  out  her  train  of  thought. 

"  You  will  not  stay  here  all  the  winter,  will  you,  Dorla  ?  " 

"  O,  I  don't  know,  I  fancy  so,"  answered  Dorla,  flushing. 
She  had  been  thinking  a  thought  to  which  this  joined  so 
fitly.  And  Felix  said : 

"I  was  just  thinking  it  would  be  a  savage  place  for  you, 
with  your  city  habits  and  your  natural  delicacy;  you  don't 
know  what  it  will  be ;  you  were  never  here  in  winter." 

"  Yes,  once,"  said  Dorla,  with  a  scorching  blush.  Then 
fearing  lest  they  should  ask  when,  she  rushed  on  to  say, 
"  she  did  not  mind  it  and  there  was  nowhere  that  she  cared 
to  go." 

"  Mr.  Rothermel  ought  to  take  you  south  for  two  or  three 
months  at  least.  I  shall  speak  to  him  about  it.  I  am  sure 
he  ought.  He  is — you'll  excuse  rny  asking  such  a  question 
— he  is  quite  well  off,  isn't  he,  my  dear  ?  Able  to  do  it,  I 
mean,  if  he  thought  it  best  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dorla,  confused,  "  I  should  think 
BO  ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  I  never 
have  asked  anything  about  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Varian,  with  an  honest  sigh,  "you 
were  never  very  worldly-wise,  my  dear.  Sometimes  I  get 
t:ck  of  worldly  wisdom,  but  I  don't  know  but  what  it's  very 
necessary  after  all." 

She  was  thinking  that  a  girl  of  Dorla's  looks  ought  to 
have  commanded  almost  any  price,  and  it  is  quite  a  wonder 
<hat  she  did  not  say  so.  Only  having  seen  something  of  the 
inflammable  nature  of  her  audience,  she  was  wise  enough  to 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  227 

f 

mppress  this.  It  is  difficult  to  say  which  was  most  trying 
during  this  trying  drive  to  Dorla,  silence,  or  this  forced 
conversation  that  always  came  out  so  badly.  Whatever 
they  talked  about  brought  them  upon  some  rock.  If  any 
one  could  imagine  that  there  was  any  dangerous  pleasure 
to  her  in  the  presence  of  Felix,  there  never  was  a  mistake 
more  utter.  She  felt  such  fear,  such  agitation,  there  was  no 
room  for  pleasure.  She  feared  sin  so  much,  it  became  im- 
possible to  her  to  be  at  ease,  to  be  herself,  when  he  was  near 
her.  He  was  associated  with  so  much  that  was  most  pain- 
ful, she  had  come  to  dread  unconsciously  the  mention  of  his 
name.  The  thought  of  him,  when  he  was  far  away,  and 
when  there  was  no  danger  of  this  shock  and  terror,  was  the 
worst  temptation.  He  would  have  done  himself  much  ser- 
vice, by  giving  more  time  to  Canada  and  the  Lakes.  The 
exquisite  evening,  the  thousand  scents  from  field  and  way- 
side, the  soft  luxury  of  the  open  carriage,  were  all  destroyed 
to  her  senses,  by  the  agitation  and  alarm  and  discomfort  of 
her  feelings.  She  looked  eagerly  at  every  familiar  spot  they 
passed ;  how  slowly  James  was  driving ;  would  they  never 
reach  the  farm. 

Bye  and  bye  they  reached  it.  Felix,  counting  every  mo- 
ment with  very  opposite  emotions,  saw  her  relief  with  chagrin 
and  pain.  This  he  could  not  understand;  maybe,  he  told 
himself,  it  was  his  mother's  presence  that  made  her  so  un- 
aappy.  Perhaps  she  would  give  him  one  word,  one  look ; 
to  making  his  mother  wait,  he  carried  Dorla's  shawl  into 
the  house  for  her. 

"  I  hope  you  are  really  better,"  he  said  at  the  door,  as  he 
handed  her  the  shawl,  dropping  the  masterful-brutal  tone 
Mid  the  cynical  one.  He  was  so  I  mgry  for  her  favor,  he 
Would  Lave  grovelled  in  the  dust  to  get  a  word. 

"  Yes — and  thank  you — you  need  not  to  have  brought 
it  in.  It  is  too  bad  to  keep  Mrs.  Varian  so  long — thank 
TOU  very  much  ;  good-night." 

;t  But  I  did  not  say  good -night,"  said  Felix,  still  standing 


228  A  PERFECT  ADONIC 

in  the  door.  "  You  know  I  have  just  come  back.  I  want 
no  know  if  you  are  really  better.  Please  remember  I  have 
not  the  same  advantages  as  those  who  are  around  you  al- 
ways." 

All  this  time  Dorla  had  not  looked  at  him.  Growing 
alternately  red  and  white,  she  stood  inside  the  hall,  looking 
as  if  she  longed  to  get  away  from  him.  It  was  well  she  had 
not  looked  at  him ;  it  would  have  been  hard  not  to  be  moved 
by  his  expression. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath  as  he 
turned  to  go  away,  "  you  will  let  me  come  to-morrow  to  see 
you  for  a  little  while  ?  For  I  am  going  away  again  ;  and  this 
time  it  will  be  long  enough  to  please  you." 

"  I — I  shall  be  away  to-morrow — that  is,  it  is  quits  possi- 
ble—" 

"  Then  I  shall  not  come  to-morrow.  But  some  other  day. 
You  know  my  going  is  not  imperative.  I  might  stay  here 
all  summer."  There  was  a  threat  implied  in  this,  and  her 
face  showed  she  understood  it  quite. 

"  But  I  shall  hope  to  find  you  in  when  I  coinev  and  at 
liberty  to  see  me.  I  may  hope  so,  may  I  not  ?  " 

i(  Felix,"  called  out  his  mother  from  the  carriage. 

"  Good-night,  then,  Mrs.  Kothermel,"  and  he  put  out  hia 
hand.  At  this  moment,  the  dear  old  mother-in-law  of  Dorla 
came  into  the  hall.  In  turning  to  speak  to  her,  Dorla 
avoided  Felix,  and  when  ho  again  came  to  say  good-night, 
she  was  standing  several  paces  further  from  him,  and  Mrs. 
Rotherinel  in  some  way  was  between  them. 

"  I  hope  your  son  is  well,"  Felix  said,  constrainedly  to 
aer  as  he  was  leaving. 

" 1  hope  so  ;  when  we  heard,  he  was." 

"  He  is  away  ?  "  asked  Felix,  looking  up. 

"  Yes,  hasn't  Dorla  told  you  ?  He  will  be  gone  a  fort- 
night.  He  was  called  away  on  business.  It  is  quite  a  jour 
uey." 

TL*n  Felix  lifted  his  hat  and  said  good  night,  and  went 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  229 

doirn  to  the  carriage,  where  sat  his  mother,  very  seriously 
disturbed.  *f 

"  Felix,"  she  began,  as  he  took  Dorla's  place  beside  he'A 

"  Mother  !  "  he  said,  as  he  leaned  back,  turning  hi  .-3  face 
away  from  her.  "  Don't  you  think  1  am  of  age,  -dnd  can 
manage  my  matters  for  myself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Felix,  I  know  you  haven't  the  excuse  that  you 
would  have  if  you  were  not  of  age.  But  you  are  manag- 
ing your  matters  very  badly,  and  I  think  a  mother  might 
take  the  liberty  of  telling  yon  the  truth,'* 

"  I  suppose  I  cannot  help  hearing  it^  as  you  have  me  tdte- 
d-tete.  But  I'd  much  rather  not,  if  it  is  quite  the  same  to 
you." 

"It  isn't!  "  cried  the  mother,  "  it  isn't;  for  I  like  that 
girl.  And,  Felix,  I  haven't  much  to  love  in  the  world  ;  and 
you  stand  first." 

There  was  a  huskiness  in  his  mother's  voice  that  he  had 
never  heard  "before.  It  gave  him  a  sense  of  emotion  that 
was  quite  new  to  him;  for  he  was  of  a  more  affectionate 
nature  than  any  of  his  family,  and  he  had  always  found  it 
liard  to  live  on  the  easy  banter  and  occasional  sharp  skir- 
mishing that  sustained  the  family  life.  Caresses  and 
emotions  were  impossible  to  Harriet,  and  difficult  to  Mrs. 
"Varian.  It  rather  alarmed  her,  and  gave  her  a  dread  that 
bhe  must  be  breaking  down,  to  know  that  twice,  within 
six  weeks,  she  had  felt  like  crying.  She  reviewed  her 
symptoms,  and  made  up  her  mind  that  she  must  see  the 
doctor.  Her  nervous  system  must  be  giving  way  ;  these 
things  are  so  insidious ;  maybe  it  was  something  serious. 

Asa  young  woman,  she  had  always  been  brave  and  cheei 

1,  not  over  sensitive,  very  healthy,  very  fond  of  the 
world.  She  had  prided  herself  on  not  coddling  her  children. 
Bhe  had  had  her  troubles,  but  they  had  not  set  heavy  jn  her, 
md  she  had  never  been  in  the  way  of  letting  any  one  into 
her  counsels.  And  if  you  do  not  talk  about  your  feelings, 
Ihey  certainly  are  less  important  matters.  Feelings  were 


230  ^  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

not  much  accounted  of  in  the  Varian  family.  Harriet  nevei 
had  any  to  speak  of,  and  Felix  was  bitterly  a&hamed  of  his, 
and  what  the  mother  had  were  so  overlaid  with  selfishness, 
and  a  habit  of  reticence,  and  good  health,  and  love  of  ease, 
that  no  one  would  have  suspected  her  of  their  possession. 

And  so,  when  Felix  heard  that  huskiness  in  his  mother's 
voice,  he  was  thrilled  with  a  new  feeling.  He  was  a  man 
that  you  could  have  done  anything  with,  by  his  affections, 
but  no  one  had  been  at  the  pains  to  do  anything  with  him ; 
and  so  he  had  grown  to  be  what  he  was.  Maybe  this  had 
been  to  the  benefit  of  his  manliness ;  his  mother  thought  so, 
when  she  thought  of  it  at  all.  She  had  feared  he  had  rather 
a  tendency  to  the  emotional  when  he  was  a  little  boy ;  was 
rather  soft,  and  showed  an  aptitude  for  crying  when  he  was 
sent  to  boarding  school,  at  the  age  of  eight.  This  sort  of 
thing  it  had  been  her  object  completely  to  suppress.  She 
had  quite  succeeded ;  and  at  nine,  when  he  went  away,  he 
had  his  cry  in  his  own  room,  and  hardly  kissed  his  mother 
when  she  put  him  in  the  carriage.  From  that  time  to  this, 
he  had  always  kept  his  feelings  to  himself,  and  was  a  beauti- 
ful success  in  the  opinion  of  his  mother.  She  would  rather 
he  had  been  undutiful,  ungodly,  cruel,  than  to  be  unmanly, 
and  to  show  a  readiness  of  feeling  that  was  against  her 
aste,  and  made  her  uncomfortable  in  all  its  stages.  Cer- 
tainly no  one  cooler,  more  self-possessed  and  unemotional  to 
the  general  eye,  could  be  asked  than  her  son  had  grown  to 
be;,  and  it  was  so  gratifying  to  her  that  she  even  enjoyed 
being  bullied  by  him,  when  she  could  provoke  him  to  it. 

It  was  a  lowering  of  her  flag,  decidedly,  when  she  told 
him  in  that  untrusty  voice,  that  she  hadn't  much  to  love  in 
khe  world,  and  that  he  stood  first.  It  was  the  novelty  of  it, 
Felix  thought,  that  shook  him  so.  There  hadn't  been  any- 
thing like  this,  since  that  terrible  eight-year-old  going  away 
to  school,  when,  he  should  always  think,  she  looked  as  if  she 
wanted  to  cry  too  (but  had  made  up  for  it  by  scolding  and 
ridicule,  that  had  made  his  life  detestable). 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  231 

**  Felix,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment,  "  Felix,  That  is 
the  use  of  going  on  in  this  foolish  way.  Heaven  knows  I've 
given  you  liberty  enough  ever  since  you  were  a  boy,  and 
never  hampered  you,  and'  fretted  you  with  questions,  and 
with  womanish  restrictions.  But  this  is  right  under  my 
own  eye,  and  I  can't  help  seeing  it,  and  you  don't  seem  to 
make  much  secret  of  it  either.  What  you  can  be  meaning 
by  it,  passes  me  to  understand.  Here  you  are,  spoiling  th^ 
girl's  life,  and  making  us  talked  about  by  every  one,  and 
doing  yourself  no  good  in  any  waif." 

"  I  can't  see  how  I'm  spoiling  her  life.  She  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  herself  as  much  as  anybody,  when  I  came  down 
to  the  Bluff  this  evening.  If  nobody  is  to  speak  to  her, 
maybe  you  will  give  some  advice  to  that  big  English  fellow 
who  was  so  close  at  her  side  all  the  time  till  you  took  her 
forcibly  away." 

"  Come,  come,  Felix,  that  is  rather  small,  to  be  jealous  of 
a  man  who,  had  not  spoken  to  her  twice  before.  She  can't 
help  it  that  she  is  prettier  than  anybody  else  ;  poor  soul,  it 
hasn't  done  her  any  good  so  far.  She  doesn't  care  much  for 
all  the  big  English  fellows  in  the  world.  I  wish  she  did, 
and  then  you  wouldn't  have  so  much  on  your  conscience." 

"  I  saw  how  it  was  going  from  the  first,"  she  went  on. 
"  Poor  girl,  she  was  blindly  in  love  with  you  from  the  mo- 
ment that  you  came.  I  was  always  hoping  she'd  take  it 
lightly,  get  to  be  a  flirt,  and  amuse  herself  with  the  admiration 
that  she'll  surely  have  enough  of.  I  don't  see  why  she  should 
n't,  or  what  else  she'll  get  out  of  life,  with  such  a  small  fool 
of  a  husband  !  But  she's  not  that  sort  at  all ;  she  takes  it 
all  in  such  deadly  earnest.  I  never  can  understand  these  pious 
women.  They  seem  to  have  the  same  feelings,  good  and  bad, 
hat  other  women  have.  But  they  don't  seem  to  have  the 
Cleverness  to  get  above  them,  and  turn  them  to  account. 
They  must  know  everybody  has  tight  places  to  go  through. 
.f  such  a  thing  had  happened  to  me  when  I  was  her  age, 
nobody  would  have  been  the  wiser.  I  would  have  danced. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

and  flirted,  and  sung,  and  cured  myself  to  my  own  satis- 
faction. I  wouldn't  have  given  up,  because  I  had  made  cue 
mistake.  I  would  have  got  some  pleasure  out  of  my  life, 
Bmall  fool  of  a  husband  notwithstanding.  But  she,  sht  /  is 
ready  to  lie  down  and  die ;  she  hasn't  pluck  enough  to  f  <ce 
the  facts.  To  be  sure,  no  woman  ever  threw  herself  a>  'ay 
mere  foolishly.  I  really  don't  blame  her  for  being  pn  bty 
desperate.  It  is  a  thousand  pities." 

"  And  whose  work  was  it  ?  "  said  Felix,  with  set  teetl  . 

"  Whose  ?  I  don't  knoV.  Some  ibolish  scruple  thai  she 
had  about  his  illness." 

"Harriet  has  boasted  over  Milford  all  the  summer  I  hat 
she  made  the  match." 

"  Well,  yes — well,  I  suppose  she  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
about  it.  But,  dear  me,  it  doesn't  do  to  look  into  things 
too  closely.  We  might  all  be  responsible  for  more  things 
than  we'd  like  to  be,  going  at  that  rate.  For  my  part  I 
think  if  people  mean  well,  that's  all  that  should  be  asked 
of  them,  and  no  further  criticism.  Harriet  wouldn't  hurt  a 
fly — but,  somehow — " 

"  Spare  me  any  word  of  Harriet  now." 

"  Don't  be  unjust  to  her  at  any  rate." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  never  wanted  to  look  at  her  again,"  said 
Felix,  low  between  his  teeth. 

(t  She's  your  sister,  and  that's  a  frightful  way  to  talk. 
Don't,  Felix,  let  this  thing  come  between  you,  don't." 

"  Mother,  we  will  not  talk  of  Harriet." 

"  No,  that  isn't  what  we  began  about,  and  isn't  what  I 
want  to  say  to  you.  I  may  not  have  another  chance ;  and 
I  want  to  put  it  to  you,  seriously,  Felix.  Are  you  doing 
right,  and  do  you  mean  to  go  on  this  way  any  longer  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  mother,  what  I  mean  to  do.  And  at  this 
moment  I  don't  care  one  atom  whether  what  I  do  is  right 
or  wrong,  or  who  is  hurt  or  who  is  pleased,  or  who  maj 
lake  offence." 

The  tone  was  so  abandonedly  miserable  and  the  maimei 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  233 

§o  different  from  his  unmoved  habit,  that  Mrs.  Varian  felt  a 
sort  of  fear.  "This  wretched  complication!  "  she  said  t3 
herself  again  and  sighed. 

"  But  Felix,"  she  said,  presently,  aloud.  "  This  sort  of 
talk  doesn't  do  any  good.  You  know  you  do  care  whethei 
you  do  right  or  wrong,  and  what  people  think  of  her,  if  not 
of  you.  One  would  think  you  were  a  boy  from  what  you 
say,  a  boy,  and  something  of  a  coward  too.  Don't  you 
know  people  can't  live  many  years  without  coming  up  against 
some  wall  like  this.  Things  you  can't  help,  things  you 
can't  get  over,  sometimes  of  one  kind,  sometimes  of  another. 
What  would  it  look  like,  if  we  all  sat  down  and  cried  ?  A 
pretty  crowd  we'd  be !  No,  Felix.  Be  a  man  about  it !  This 
thing  can't  be  helped  and  you'll  have  to  do  as  better  people 
have  done  before  yoti,  go  off  and  forget  it.  This  time  a  year, 
1*11  ask  you  if  I  am  not  right.  You'll  be  ashamed  even  to 
remember  that  you  talked  to  me  about  it.  I  know  some- 
thing of  life,  my  son ;  I  know  what  people  can  do  if  they 
make  up  their  minds  to  do  it." 

Felix  moved  his  hand  with  an  impatient  gesture.  Thia 
was  not  what  he  wished  to  hear. 

"  O,  I  know.  You  think  I  am  not  half  as  wise  as  you 
are,  and  a  woman  into  the  bargain,  and  you  don't  care  to 
listen  to  iny  views  of  life.  If  you  think  so,  I  know  there  is 
no  use  in  argument.  But  at  least  you'll  let  me  ask  your 
mercy  for  another  woman,  who  may  be  as  ignorant  as  I  am 
of  your  superior  code,  and  who  is  much  younger  than  I  am, 
and  I  am  afraid  a  good  deal  weaker.  Have  a  little  pity 
upon  Dorla,  Felix.  Don't  make  things  any  worse  for  hei 
than  they  are  already.  Don't  turn  the  world  against  her, 
It  wouldn't  take  many  more  scenes  to  do  it.  Don't  torment 
her  with  the  sight  and  thought  of  you ;  give  her  a  chance  to 
get  over  this  if  it  is  possible." 

"  And  if  it  isn't  possible,"  said  Felix,  fierce  and  low  below 
his  breath. 

"  It  is  possible  ;  it  is  possible.     How  many  women  ha  v« 


234:  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

to  get  over  the  same  thing.  Why  is  Dorla  any  different 
from  other  women  except  that  she  hasn't  any  pluck.  I  am 
sure  she  can  get  used  to  disappointment  like  any  other,  and 
go  on  and  lead  her  pious  life  if  it  comforts  her,  just  as  1 
should  have  gone  on  and  led  a  jolly  one  if  it  had  been  my 
luck.  It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing.  She  can  get  over  it 
soon  enough  if  you  will  only  let  her  alone." 

"  And  how  if  I  won't  let  her  alone  ?  "  asked  Felix,  with  tin 
same  suppressed  vehemence  of  intonation. 

"  How  if  you  won't  ?  Why,  then,  I  shall  say  you  are  a 
worse  man  and  a  more  foolish  one  than  I  had  ever  thought 
you.  Felix !  [By  this  time  the  mother  was  frightened  and 
gave  up  her  arguments.]  Felix,  you  haven't  had  the  chance 
to  refuse  me  many  favors,  for  I  haven't  asked  you  many. 
Do  this  thing  for  my  sake ;  remember  who  it  is  that  asks 
you ;  remember  that  I  am  your  mother." 

"  Some  very  trifling  thing  to  ask,  no  doubt,"  said  Felix, 
with  a  bitter  laugh. 

;<  Trifling  or  no,  I  ask  it,  and  I  don't  believe  you  will 
refuse  me.  You've  been  a  good  boy,  Felix — I'm  not  one  to 
say  much — but  if  I  haven't  you — what  have  I  ?  Don't  let 
me  be  disappointed  in  you  j  don't !  I  am  an  old  woman 
now.  There  mayn't  be  many  more  things  that  you  can  do 
for  me." 

<e  Mother,  you  are  hard  upon  me — "  cried  Felix. 

He  was  thinking,  but  he  did  not  say,  after  all  these  years 
of  cold  repression,  just  to  use  her  words  of  tenderness  to 
force  him  to  give  up  to  her.  She  had  moved  him  deeply 
though,  and  she  began  to  see  it. 

"  Do  this  one  thing  for  me,  Felix ;  go  away,  go  away  ai 
dawn  to-morrow.  All  will  yet  be  right." 

"  No,  mother,  that  is  asking  more  than  I  will  ever  do.  I 
will  not  go  away  to-morrow." 

"Then,  Felix,  you  do  not  mean  to  listen  to  me.  I  might 
as  well  have  held  my  peace.  My  sou,  1  have  had  many  dis* 
Bppoin  ;ments ;  you  haven't  heard  much  of  them,  for  I  keej 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  235 

»y  troubles  bo  myself,  but  I  think  this  will  be  the  hardest, 
I  did  not  think  you  would  refuse  me." 

"  I  have  not  refused  you.  I  mean  to  go  away.  But  you 
must  not  push  me  too  hard,  mother.  I  will  make  no  prom 
ises.  In  three  days,  I  mean  to  go  away ;  let  that  be  enough, 
I  hope  you  can  trust  me  for  that  time.  I  suppose  I  am  no 
better  and  no  worse  than  most  men  of  my  generation ;  you 
needn't  expect  too  much  of  me.  But  you  needn't  think  I 
am  a  fiend." 

The  words  that  Mrs.  Varian  said  then  were  dear  to  Felix's 
heart  forever.  Poor  Felix  !  He  had  had  so  few  words  from 
her.  She  began  to  see  she  might  have  done  anything  with 
him,  and  she  had  done  so  little.  A  sharp  remorse  was  fill- 
ing her  world-dulled  soul.  She  saw  luridly  at  moments  what 
she  had  been  missing  on  her  easy,  merry  road.  *  *  * 

That  was  the  basis  upon  which  matters  were  adjusted; 
that  Felix  should  go  away  in  three  days'  time,  and  that  he 
should  not  disappoint  his  mother.  The  next  day  he  cer- 
tainly seemed  to  be  behaving  better,  and  a  load  was  lifted 
off  her  heart.  He  did  not  avoid  the  people  who  surrounded 
them ;  he  even  endured  the  presence  of  Harriet.  He  had 
not  seen  Dorla  as  far  as  Mrs.  Varian  was  able  to  inform 
herself. 

But  it  had  not  been  for  want  of  effort  to  do  so.  He  had 
driven  in  every  direction  in  which  he  had  supposed  it  possi- 
ble that  she  might  drive ;  had  passed  the  house  more  than 
once,  but  all  without  success.  He  in  his  own  mind  had 
fixed  upon  the  following  afternoon  for  his  interview  with 
her  ;  that  interview  that  she  would  not  have  the  bravery  to 
refuse  to  him.  What  it  would  result  in — what  he  would 
have  the  courage  to  say,  or  the  generosity  to  suppress,  he 
M>uld  not  even  guess.  He  hau  a  feverish  interest  in  life,  so 
long  as  that  meeting  was  still  to  come.  He  did  not  look 
beyond  it.  It  was  to  be  all  blank.  But  it  waa  noi 
;>lank  yet.  He  could  be  patient,  civil;  could  talk  with 
people  whom  he  met;  he  wondered  at  himsel£  But  in 


236  A  PERFECT  ADOV18. 

truth,  though  he  thought  he  had  made  the  sacrifice  in  his 
heart,  he  was  still  counting  like  a  madman  on  the  issues  of 
that  meeting.  If  she  wavered,  if  he  saw  anything  to  make 
him  change  his  mind,  his  assurance  to  his  mother  would 
have  been  but  idle  words.  "  Neither  better  nor  worse  thar 
most  men  of  his  generation."  He  would  have  gone  away,  it 
is  true,  at  the  end  of  his  three  days ;  but  he  would  have 
fulfilled  but  the  letter  of  his  promise  in  so  going. 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  was  on  the  eve  of  parting  for 
ever  from  her,  and  yet  so  tenacious  was  the  hope  within 
him,  that  he  did  not  feel  that  what  he  said  to  himself  was  to 
be  the  truth.  And  so  baffled  had  he  been  in  every  attempt 
to  see  her,  so  few  words  had  he  ever  had  with  her  since  that 
last  night  that  they  had  danced  together,  that  he  was  living 
a  false  life  of  excitement  in  the  prospect  of  that  interview, 
that  half  hour  that  he  had  demanded  of  fate,  that  he  had 
secured  so  that  no  one  should  take  it  from  him.  He  tried 
to  prepare  himself  for  not  seeing  her  alone ;  that  might  be 
beyond  him  to  prevent.  But  at  least  he  should  see  her, 
should  hear  her  speak.  It  would  go  hard  with  him  but  that 
he  should  have  a  few  words  with  her  by  himself ;  he  lived 
over  the  interview  in  a  thousand  different  shapes,  and 
planned  a  thousand  different  expedients. 

About  the  chance  of  her  refusal  to  see  him  he  did  not 
allow  himself  to  think.  He  sent  her  a  note  which  said  so 
plainly  and  yet  so  blindly  that  till  she  saw  him  he  should 
not  go  away,  he  could  not  doubt  her  taking  the  wise  course 
of  granting  him  the  interview.  "  He  should  hope  to  find 
her  at  home  on  the  following  afternoon  at  half-past  five 
o'clock." 

The  next  morning  had  come,  and  he  had  received  no 
answer ;  which  surely  meant  that  she  did  not  refuse  him. 
How  to  get  through  the  long  morning !  He  felt  that  he 
must  do  something  to  occupy  himself.  James  brought  his 
torse  to  the  door ;  it  was  a  close  August  morning,  the  sky 
was  clouded  and  no  air  stirring,  but  Felix  could  hardly 


A  PERFECT  ADON1&  237 

have  told  whether  it  stormed  or  shone.  (Xivei  (he  had 
always  hated  Oliver  for  a  priggish  fool,  but  no  matter  for  thia 
once)  Oliver  was  standing  near. 

"  Get  in  and  drive  with  me  to  Port  Jervis,  if  you've  noth- 
ing else  to  do." 

Oliver  had  nothing  else  to  do,  and  was  very  glad  to  go. 
He  was  getting  tired,  even  he,  of  hammock  and  glen  and 
worsted  work  and  Tennyson.  For  the  summer  was  draw- 
ing to  a  close,  and  every  one  was  feeling  moderately  weary. 
The  drive  to  Port  Jervis  was  much  better  than  sitting  still ; 
there  was  quite  a  freshness  in  the  air  when  you  were  rushing 
through  it  at  the  rate  they  went.  It  was  quite  a  stimulant, 
and  revived  Oliver  while  it  was  quieting  to  the  nerves  oi 
Felix. 

When  they  trotted  airily  into  the  town  and  drew  up  be- 
fore the  railroad  inn,  the  people  were  j  ust  collecting  for  the 
New  York  train.  It  gave  Felix  a  feeling  of  surprise  to  see 
the  Rothermel  horses  and  the  rockaway  standing  before  tho 
door  of  the  hotel.  A  moment  more,  and  Dorla  got  out  of 
it,  dressed  for  travelling,  and  with  some  shawls  strapped, 
and  a  bag  in  her  hand.  She  had  not  seen  them,  and  went 
np  the  steps  and  into  the  parlor  of  the  hotel.  Neither  had 
Oliver  seen  her,  for  he  was  busy  lighting  his  cigar,  and  three 
matches  had  failed  to  produce  the  coveted  result. 

Felix  sat  for  an  instant  stupefied;  then  throwing  the 
reins  to  Oliver,  (putting  out,  alas,  the  fire  of  the  fourth  match) 
said,  "  Sit  here  a  moment,  will  you.  I've  got  to  go  to  the 
telegraph  office  just  across  the  street." 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  did,  or  how  the  plan  came  so 
ready-made  to  his  hand.  He  was  steel-cold  in  all  the  fury 
of  his  disappointment  and  chagrin.  It  was  so  that  he  was 
to  be  cheated  of  his  half  hour  of  farewell !  But  she  had  not 
triumphed  yet. 

Oliver  sat  waiting  for  him  tranquilly ;  in  about  four  min- 
utes he  came  out  of  the  telegraph  office  and  approached  the 
yagon,  tearing  to  bits  and  throwing  to  the  winds  a  yellow 


238  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

envelope.  It  was  addressed  to  the  Honesdale  Mam.  facturing 
Company  and  had  been  lying  opened  on  the  floor  of  the  office 
for  the  last  three  days,  but  it  served  equally  the  purpose  ol 
this  wily  person. 

"  I  find  I'm  called  down  to  the  city,"  he  said,  folding  up 
and  putting  in  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  telegraph  office  paper, 
(blank,  but  Oliver  was  not  near  enough  to  see.)  "  I'll  have 
to  get  you  to  drive  my  horse  back  for  me,  if  you  will.  And 
say  to  my  mother,  that  I've  gone  down  on  business,  and 
that  I'll  be  back  in  a  day  or  two,  just  as  soon  as  ever  I 
get  through  with  it.  I'll  write  her  if  I  am  not  back  to-mor- 
row." 

"  All  right,"  said  Oliver.  "  1  hope  it's  nothing  of  an  un- 
pleasant nature." 

"  O,  no,"  returned  Felix,  "  hardly  of  importance  enough 
to  be  unpleasant,  but  just  one  of  those  things  that  must  be 
attended  to  on  the  spot  if  it  is  attended  to  at  all." 

"  You  haven't  much  time  to  lose,"  said  Oliver,  looking  at 
his  watch.  So  after  a  few  words  the  two  men  parted,  the 
elderly  mouse-colored  Oliver,  much  deceived,  back  to  Mil- 
ford,  not  without  -some  misgivings  as  to  his  personal  safety 
behind  that  fleeting  steed;  and  Felix,  with  a  storm  of 
passion  under  good  control,  into  the  waiting-room  of  the 
hotel.  Dorla  was  sitting  listlessly  near  an  open  window. 
She  did  not  see  him  till  he  stood  beside  her.  He  feigned 
surprise.  Was  she  going  to  the  city  too  ?  Was  she  all  alone  ? 
Then  he  should  ask  the  pleasure  of  taking  care  of  her  while 
they  were  en  route.  And  with  that  he  took  possession  of 
the  travelling-bag  beside  her.  She  was  very  pale  and  hardly 
answered  when  he  spoke  to  her,  but  that  did  not  surprise 
him.  He  took  a  seat  beside  her.  There  were  two  or  three 
people,  strangers,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Felix  took 
out  his  watch. 

"  We  have  just  eleven  minutes.  I  need  not  have  hurried 
jo,  I  have  just  been  to  the  telegraph  office.  I  find  my  sell 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  239 

called  to  to«m  on  business.     But  I  shall  not  regret  it,  if  I 
pan  be  of  any  use  to  you." 

Dorla  drew  a  long  breath.  Then  it  was  fate  and  not  his 
cruel  purpose. 

"  Is  not  your  going  somewhat  sudden,"  he  asked,  looking 
at  her  intently  as  he  spoke. 

«  Yes — no — I  have  thought  of  it  for  a  day  or  two." 

"  Ah  !  such  a  disagreeable  season  to  go  to  the  city.  I  fan- 
cied you  rarely  or  never  went." 

"  I  have  never  been  before,  since — since  I  have  lived  at 
Milford." 

There  was  a  silence  of  several  moments. 

"  You  could  scarcely  have  chosen  a  worse  day,"  he  said, 
putting  out  his  hand  for  a  palm-leaf  fan  on  the  table  near 
him.  "  1  am  afraid  it  will  be  very  close." 

"  I  did  not  choose  it,"  said  Dorla,  speaking  with  an  effort. 
"  I  thought  I  ought  to  go.  I  have  had  bad  news ;  it  seemed 
a  duty." 

"You  have  had  bad  news,"  repeated  Felix,  eagerly,  his 
heart  softening  with  a  sudden  melt  (how  ready  it  was  to 
soften).  "  I  hope  it  is  not  anything  that  really  pains  you. 
I  am  very  sorry — " 

"  It  is — Harry,"  and  her  voice  broke  down. 

"  Your  brother  ?  "  asked  Felix,  gently.     "  He  is  ill  ?  " 

Dorla  assented,  but  she  could  not  speak.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  whistle  sounded,  and  the  people  in  the  waiting- 
room  all  hurried  out. 

"  It  is  not  our  train,"  said  Felix,  as  he  took  her  shawls 
and  bag.  "But  ours  is  due  in  another  minute  and  we  had 
better  go  across,  and  be  on  the  spot." 

She  followed  him  humbly.  What  else  was  there  for  her 
to  do,  poor  child.  And  he,  in  hot  torment  of  remorse  and 
self-reproach,  led  her  across  the  maze  of  railway  tracks,  into 
the  crowded  depot.  He  had  been  blaming  her,  and  she  had 
had  no  will  to  baffle  him,  but  had  been  suffering  cruelly. 
She  »semed  born  to  suffer.  His  heart  swelled  with  th« 


240  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

pain  it  gave  him  to  know  she  was  unhappy.  Presen  i\y  their 
train  came  thundering  up  ;  in  another  moment  they  were  in 
it.  He  put  her  in  a  seat. 

"  I  will  see  if  we  cannot  do  better,"  he  remarked,  laying 
down  the  shawls  and  bag  beside  her,  and  going  away  for  a 
few  moments.  When  he  cams  back  he  said, 

"  I  find  there  is  a  Pullman  car  on  the  train,  and  there  we 
shall  be  more  comfortable." 

He  had  found  to  his  great  satisfaction  one  of  the  larger 
compartments  vacant,  and  into  that  he  led  her.  He  took 
her  bag  and  shawls,  and  put  them  out  of  her  way,  placed  a 
footstool  for  her  feet,  arranged  the  window. 

"  There  is  a  nice  breeze  coming  in  here  now,"  he  said, 
"  we  shall  not  find  it  half  as  warm  as  I  had  thought." 

If  he  could  only  make  her  comfortable,  protect  her,  and 
for  a  moment  make  her  life  less  dreary.  But  she  looked 
BO  wan  and  wretched,  he  had  not  much  heart.  He  was  so 
relieved  and  yet  so  conscience-stricken ;  it  was  such  a  strange 
bliss  to  be  here  with  her  alone,  as  much  alone  as  if  he  had  had 
his  way  about  seeing  her  at  home.  And  yet  it  was  so  har- 
rowing to  see  her  face  so  sad.  He  had  not  yet  seated 
himself.  He  stood  opposite  her  by  the  window.  She  was 
gazing  vacantly  out  upon  the  beautiful  hills  and  the  forests 
below  them  ;  but  he  could  see  that  she  looked  at  nothing. 

"  Harriet  has  told  me  of — of  your  brother,"  he  said  at  last, 
in  a  hesitating  tone.  "  I  am  truly  sorry  to  know  you  are  so 
anxious.  Maybe  there  is  not  cause,  and  it  has  been  ex- 


She  shook  her  head.     "  I  wish  it  were  that,"  she 
"  But  I  believe  I  shall  find  I  do  not  know  the  worst." 

"It  is  so  natural  to  feel  so,"  he  said.  "But  often  it 
turns  out  we  have  imagined  the  worst  when  it  really  wasn't 
coming." 

"  I  might  as  well  imagine  it — it  always  comes  to  me/' 
she  said,  in  a  bitter  tone.  And  then  she  quite  broke  down. 
"  I  don't  see  why  I  have  such  trouble — I  wish  that  I  could 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  241 

die  — n  And  bowing  her  head  down  upon  the  table  before 
heV,  she  sobbed  without  restraint. 

And  Felix  ?  He  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  looking 
down  at  her.  He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  He 
held  his  lips  tightly  pressed  together,  almost  white  with  the 
intensity  of  his  control.  No,  he  could  not  help  her :  he 
was  her  torture  ;  he  had  made  her  life  what  it  was  ;  it  was 
not  for  Harry  that  she  cried  alone.  It  was  all  before  him, 
and  his  soul  was  desperate  in  the  vision.  No  words  of  his 
could  help  her ;  he  was  more  than  useless  to  her ;  he,  a 
strong  and  clever  man,  whose  life  lay  at  her  feet.  Her 
weakness,  her  misery,  her  beauty ;  how  they  made  him  love 
her.  Impotent,  damning,  fatal  love.  There  was  one  thing 
that  he  could  do  to  help  her ;  just  one  thing.  How  could 
he  make  the  sacrifice  ?  he  who  thought  that  he  loved  her 
well  enough  to  die  for  her  ?  Yes,  he  could  leave  her ;  go 
away  and  never  cross  her  path  again.  He  looked  down  at 
her — so  fair,  so  helpless,  so  suffering.  Wealth,  strength, 
intellect,  love — all  his  gifts  he  could  not  use  for  her.  He 
could  only  go  away.  She  had  thrown  one  arm  across  the 
table,  and  her  head  was  buried  in  the  other.  The  ungloved 
hand  that  lay  upon  the  table  was  so  slender,  white  and  un- 
nerved. There  was  something  plaintive  in  it.  It  lay  within 
a  few  inches  of  Felix's  own.  And  yet  he  dared  not  touch 
it.  In  the  tempest  of  feeling  in  his  mind,  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  looked  at  it,  that  he  would  be  willing  to  die  to  hold  it 
in  his  grasp  a  moment,  yes,  a  moment,  a  tangible,  definite, 
time-recorded  moment,  made  up  of  sixty  seconds.  And  yet 
he  dared  not  touch  it.  And  life  might  pass  over  him,  and 
all  of  time  and  death,  and  he  should  never  touch  it — should 
never  stand  any  nearer  to  her  than  he  was  standing  now. 

Very  much  of  what  was  in  his  soul  was  on  his  face ;  too 
much,  alas! 

There  was  a  glass  door  to  the  compartment,  which  Felix 
had  closed  after  him  as  he  came  in.  There  was  ground  and 
cut  glass  above  and  below,  but  the  two  central  panes  were 


242  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

of  clear  glass.  Felix,  turning  suddenly,  saw  thro  igh  this 
glass,  the  face  of  young  Davis  looking  in  with  an  expr£&- 
sion  made  up  of  curiosity,  malice  and  amusement.  In  an 
instant  it  flamed  through  Felix's  mind,  the  horrible  posi- 
tion in  which  he  had  placed  his  innocent  companion.  All 
his  mother's  words,  all  Dorla's  ineffectual  struggles,  all  his 
own  reasoning,  had  not  done  it;  but  that  one  sight  of  Davis' 
face  revealed  the  black  abyss  to  him.  Their  sudden  disap- 
pearance at  the  same  time,  the  grief  of  Dorla,  the  whole 
scene,  in  fact,  on  which  Davis  had  intruded,  would  make  a 
story  that  would  fatally  compromise  her  honor.  His  selfish- 
ness and  his  sin  were  fully  revealed  to  him  at  a  glance.  He 
hated  himself,  and  was  in  mortal  terror  for  a  moment.  The 
sacrifice  that  he  had  played  at  making,  he  made  now  with 
all  the  fervor  of  remorse. 

"  If  I  can  free  her  from  this  devil's  net  into  which  I  hav* 
pushed  her,  I  will  never  trouble  her  peace  again,  if  it  costs 
me  all  my  own." 

All  the  reasonings  of  his  quick  brain  were  none  too  great. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  desperate  situation.  But  before  Davis1 
face  had  disappeared  from  the  window  (and  ho  moved  awaj 
the  instant  he  caught  the  eye  of  Felix),  Felix's  plan  was 
made.  He  made  a  quick  sign  to  Davis,  and  letting  himself 
out  of  the  door,  closed  it  and  joined  him  outside. 

'*  I  had  forgotten  you  were  going  to  town  to-day,"  he  said. 
"  You  said  something  to  me  about  it  yesterday,  I  remember. 
But  I  wasn't  thinking  of  going  then  myself." 

An  incredulous  laugh  lit  Davis'  eye.  "No,  I  believe 
you  didn't  mention  it." 

"  I  had  an  unexpected  cull  to  town,  and  had  to  send  back 
:ny  horse  by  Oliver,  from  the  station.  I  hope  he  will  not 
come  to  grief  before  he  gets  to  Milford." 

"  Hope  not,  indeed."  returned  Davis,  with  un appeased 
tnalice  in  his  tone,  "  Oliver  isn't  much  of  a  whip,  I've  al- 
rays  understood." 

had  been  so  sniggered  by  the  sudden  danger  of  the 


A  PERFECT  ADOjxfS.  2-13 

rituation,  that  he  had  hardly  gained  control  of  liis  voice; 
but  now  he  went  bravely  at  the  business. 

"  Where  are  you  sitting  ?  " 

"  Here's  my  chair,  I  believe,"  said  Davis,  moving  towards 
the  saloon  or  open  portion  of  the  car.  "  I  was  on  my  way 
to  find  my  number,  when — when  I  caught  sight  of  yon 
in  the  compartment." 

"  Here's  another  vacant  chair  I'll  take  it  till  some  one 
comes  to  claim  it.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  think  poor  Mrs. 
Rothermel  is  better  off  by  herself  for  a  little  while.  You've 
heard  about  it,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Heard  about  it — what — I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

Felix  fixed  his  eye  intently,  keenly  on  the  youth  whom 
he  was'  resolved  to  master.  "  About  her  brother.  Some- 
thing grave  has  happened,  but  I  didn't  like  to  question  her ; 
I  think  she  fears  she  may  not  find  him  living." 

"Ah!  Is  that  it?  I— I  really  didn't  know."  And 
then  there  came  a  cynical  look  across  his  youthful  features 

"  Yes,"  said  Felix,  with  a  manner  of  indifference,  twist- 
ing his  chair  to  the  right  point  for  the  breeze.  "  But  a  mis- 
erable fellow,  I  have  understood,  a  disgrace  and  trouble 
from  the  very  first.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were  a  suicide 
or  some  sort  of  serious  complication.  I'm  sorry  for  his 
poor  sister;  it's  a  miserable  business." 

"  Fes,"  said  Davis,  a  little  staggered  for  the  moment. 
"  Yes,  it's  a — nasty  piece  of  work." 

Felix  hummed  a  tune,  and  sat  looking  out  of  the  window 
stolidly  for  several  minutes,  as  men  do.  He  was  desperately 
revolving  in  his  mind  what  to  say  next ;  he  dreaded  so  to 
overdo  the  matter.  Davis,  in  the  meanwhile,  was  getting  a 
little  over  his  surprise,  and  found  himself,  the  more  he 
thought  about  it,  quite  unconvinced  that  his  first  suspicions 
were  without  foundation.  It  must  be  remembered  that 
Dorla  and  Felix  had  been  town  talk  for  several  weeks,  and 
fchat  he  had  been  once  snubbed  by  Dorla,  and  many  times 
by  Felix.  That  did  not  make  him  sweet  tempered.  Last 


244  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

summer  he  had  rather  fancied  himself  in  love  with  her,  and 
he  had  not  been  without  aspirations  even  later.  Besides 
which,  he  was  not  a  fool,  though  by  no  means  a  match  for 
Felix  on  an  even  ground.  But  things  were  so  much  against 
Felix  in  this  encounter,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  how  it 
was  going. 

A  boy  came  by  with  papers ;  they  each  bought  one,  and 
each  buried  himself  behind  the  one  that  he  had  bought ;  and 
each  knew  very  little  of  the  news  of  the  day,  when  he 
emerged  from  that  retirement. 

"  Not  much  to  be  got  out  of  that  sheet,"  said  Felix,  wi  fcb 
a  yawn,  laying  his  down  upon  his  knee. 

"  No,  not  much  stirriog  in  the  way  of  news,"  replied  the 
other,  folding  his  with  nonchalance.  "  When  do  you  go 
back  to  Milford  ?  "  he  continued,  looking  covertly  at  Felix. 

"  To-night,"  said  Felix,  promptly.  "  I  shall  get  through 
all  I've  got  co  do  in  half  an  hour,  at  least.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  I'll  have  to  go  up  town  at  all.  I  mean  to  get  off 
by  the  7:50  train." 

ff  Ah,  then  we  shall  meet  again.  That  is,  if  you  are  able 
to  get  off.  I'm  going  back  by  that  train  too." 

"  Then,  if  you  get  down  first,  engage  a  seat  for  me,  if  you 
think  of  it.  There's  sometimes  a  great  crowd  at  that 
hour." 

t(  Yes,  certainly,  if  you  think  you  won't  be  kept ;  I  mean, 
if  you  think  it  at  all  likely  that  you  really  will  get  off." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  to  prevent  my  getting  off  unless 
I  break  my  leg,  or  get  jammed  between  the  wharf  and  the 
ferry  boat.  Such  things  have  overtaken  better  men  ;  bc.t  I 
can't  help  a  sort  of  confidence  that  I  may  slip  through 
safely.  Not  because  of  my  many  virtues,  but  because  1 
generally  look  where  I  am  going." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Davis,  a  little  abashed,  but  generally 
vicious.  (t  I  hadn't  thought  about  your  coming  to  grief  in 
that  vray.  But  I  didn't  know  whether  this  affair  of  Mrs. 
Rothermel's  might  not  keep  you.  There  might  be  som» 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  245 

thing  that  you'd  have  to  do  for  her,  if  it's  such  a  serious 
matter." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  such  a  serious  matter  that  I  could  not 
even  make  an  offer  of  my  services.  I  am  a  comparative 
stranger,  and  in  a  family  trouble  like  this,  it  is  a  delicate 
matter  to  attempt  intrusion.  There  is  nothing  that  I'd  do 
with  greater  pleasure  though,  and  I  hope  she  understands 
it." 

"  O,  I'm  sure  she  does,"  said  Davis,  carelessly,  but  with 
an  intonation  that  made  Felix  dig  his  fingers  into  the  cush- 
ion of  his  chair ;  they  tingled  so  to  get  about  the  fellow's 
throat. 

Davis  was  getting  brave.  He  had  always  been  secretly 
afraid  of  Felix,  but  to-day  he  vaguely  felt  that  he  could  go 
great  lengths.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  have  spoken 
thus  with  impunity  at  any  time  before  during  their 
acquaintance.  Felix  was  rather  at  a  loss;  there  was  no 
need  for  any  further  statements ;  and  general  and  desultory 
conversation  is  difficult  with  a  man  whose  throat  is  a  temp- 
tation. He  covertly  watched  the  time.  There  was  an 
hour  and  three-quarters  yet  to  be  disposed  of. 

<£  Do  you  feel  like  smoking  ?  "  he  said  rising.  Davis  felt 
like  it,  rose  and  followed  him.  As  they  passed  the  door  of 
the  compartment  where  Dorla  sat,  "  stay,"  said  Felix, 
f<  where  are  our  papers  ?  I  will  take  them  in  to  Mrs.  Rother- 
inel,  and  see  if  there  is  anything  that  we  can  do  for  her." 

He  went  back  fco  look  for  the  papers,  leaving  Davis  stand- 
Lag  at  the  door. 

"  Shall  you  go  in  ?"  said  Felix  as  he  came  back,  smooth- 
ing the  papers  out  in  his  hands. 

"  Certainly  not}"  returned  Davis  with  abominable  prompt- 
ness. Dorla  was  sitting  by  the  window  leaning  her  head 
back,  and  gazing  out  with  the  same  absorbed  expression, 
Davis  watched  narrowly  while  Felix  approached  her 
There  was  not  much  to  see.  Felix  purposely  stood  between 
her  and  the  door  j  but  Davis  might  have  seen  her  face,  foi 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

fcll  its  change  of  color.  It  was  deep  wretchedness,  And 
nothing,  nothing  else. 

They  went  away  to  smoke ;  and  in  the  smoking  car  Felix 
met  a  person  whom  he  knew,  to  his  extreme  relief.  Ha 
abandoned  Davis,  and  talked  with  the  new-comer  as  if  he 
had  no  other  interest  in  life.  Davis  meanwhile  watched 
him  narrowly,  and  began  to  feel  quite  young  and  unimpor- 
tant. When  they  were  nearing  the  city,  Felix  threw  away 
the  remnant  of  his  last  cigar,  and  seeming  just  to  have 
recalled  Davis'  existence,  joined  him  and  said, 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  car  just  now  ?  " 

Davis,  quite  restored  to  his  ordinary  good  manners, 
assented,  and  they  went  into  the  car  that  they  had  quitted. 
By  this  time  Davis  had  begun  to  doubt  exceedingly  the 
correctness  of  his  first  impressions.  This  doubt  was  rather 
deepened  by  the  easy  way  in  which  Felix,  stopping  at  the 
door,  said  to  Dorla, 

"  We  are  nearly  at  our  journey's  end,  Mrs.  Rothermel. 
Can  I  not  take  your  checks,  or  has  the  expressman  been  to 
you?  I  should  have  thought  of  that  before." 

"  The  expressman  hasn't  been.  At  least,  I  haven't  seen 
him,"  said  Dorla,  very  wearily. 

"  That's  odd ;  Davis,  has  he  been  through  the  car  ?  " 

Thus  addressed,  Davis  had  to  bow,  and  suffer  himself  to 
be  drawn  into  the  conversation. 

"  I  will  go  and  look  him  up,"  said  Felix,  and  Davis,  to  his 
chagrin,  found  himself  left  beside  Dorla,  and  obliged  awk- 
wardly to  talk  to  her  till  the  return  of  Felix.  Beside  the 
natural  dread  which  a  man  has  of  talking  to  any  one  in 
(rouble,  particularly  if  it  is  a  woman  and  liable  to  cry,  he  felt 
exceedingly  ashamed  of  himself  for  all  the  naughty  things 
he  had  been  thinking  of  her.  He  would  have  been  a  brute, 
if  he  could  have  thought  anything  that  was  not  good  and 
pitiful  of  the  poor  girl  before  him ;  and  he  certainly  had  no 
thoughts  that  were  not  such.  When  Felix  came  back,  just 
as  thev  reached  the  depot,  there  was  so  much  to  be  said 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  247 

about  trunks  and  expressmen  and  checks  and  nnmben 
(new  and  old)  of  streets,  that  Davis  could  not  see  much 
room  left  for  sentiment. 

"  I  must  see  if  I  can't  find  the  man,  for  you  don't  want 
to  wait  till  the  baggage  is  taken  over,"  Felix  said.  "  Davis, 
if  you'll  take  Mrs.  Rothermel  on  the  boat,  I'll  see  what 
can  be  done.  Give  me  your  checks,  Mrs.  Rothermel.  Let 
me  see.  I  have  the  address  all  right  ?  " 

He  read  it  over  to  her.  So  Davis  found  himself  giving 
his  arm  to  Mrs.  Rothermel,  and  carrying  her  shawls,  and 
getting  her  safely  through  the  jostling  crowd.  It  was  very 
warm  ;  the  depot  was  suffocating.  Dorla  looked  very  pale. 
On  the  ferryboat  it  was  better.  Davis  got  seats  near  the 
door,  and  the  fresh  breeze  from  the  water  was  restoring. 
Felix  came  after  a  while  and  stood  beside  them,  for  there  was 
no  seat.  He  had  found  the  expressman,  and  that  was  all 
right.  They  talked  about  express  companies,  and  the  bad 
management  of  ferryboats,  and  all  the  dozen  things  that 
people  talk  about  when  they  are  travelling  and  haven't 
much  to  say.  When  they  reached  the  other  side,  there  was 
a  worse  crowd  than  usual,  people  pouring  on  and  people 
pouring  off  the  boat  at  the  same  moment.  Felix  saw  with 
agony  that  Dorla  was  growing  very  pale  again. 

"  I  will  find  a  carriage  for  you,  if  you  will  stay  with 
Mr.  Davis.  Davis,  don't  let  them  take  you  off  your  feet. 
Wait  there  for  me.  I  will  not  be  many  minutes." 

So  Davis  waited,  and  he  couldn't  help  thinking  it  looked 
more  as  if  Mrs.  Rothermel  was  eloping  with  him  than 
with  Felix  Varian.  He  began  to  wonder  if  he  were  being 
made  a  cat's-paw  of.  Felix  soon  found  the  carriage,  and 
beckoned  them  to  come.  He  held  the  carriage-door  open 
for  Dorla,  and  Davis  raised  his  hat. 

11  Wait  for  me  a  moment,"  Felix  said  to  him,  as  he 
thowed  a  disposition  to  move  off. 

u  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  be  going  to  ride,"  Davis  said, 


248  *  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

looking  at  him  sharply,  as  he  delivered  up  the  shafrls  and 
ba«. 

"  No,  I'll  walk  along  with  you,  if  you'll  wait  a  moment.'1 

Dorla  was  in  the  carriage,  but  she  was  looking  ghastly 
white.  The  heat  indeed  was  great ;  the  men  about  the 
wharves  were  wiping  the  perspiration  from  their  faces,  and 
gasping  for  fresh  air.  The  sun  was  obscured,  but  the  air 
was  motionless. 

"  You  don't  feel  faint,"  said  Felix,  hurriedly. 

"  N-no — "  said  Dorla,  trying  to  speak  firmly.  "  I  shall 
be  better — but  this  heat  is  frightful." 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you,"  he  said.  "  Good- 
bye !" 

He  shut  the  carriage  door  and  told  the  man  where  to 
drive.  He  did  not  look  at  her  again,  he  dared  not.  For 
this  was  in  truth  Good-bye.  He  never  meant  to  see  her 
again.  It  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear  to  see  her 
go  away  uncared  for  and  alone,  through  the  great  cruel 
city.  He  had  a  feeling  that  at  all  moments  of  her  life  she 
should  be  guarded  and  watched  over,  that  she  was  too 
precious  and  too  dear  to  walk  the  common  ways  of  life. 
But  to-day,  in  all  this  storm  of  trouble,  and  with  that  white 
and  suffering  face,  to  let  her  go  alone  was  an  act  that 
seemed  to  rend  his  heart.  He  knew  that  she  had  no  one 
on  whom  to  depend ;  he  thought  of  all  the  dark  maze  of 
trouble  in  which  she  would  be  involved  when  she  once 
reached  her  brother ;  no  one  to  do  anything  for  her,  no  one 
to  decide  for  her  what  should  be  done  in  all  the  matters  that 
arose.  He  did  not  know  where  this  brother  might  be,  into 
what  dangerous  and  vile  places  she  might  not  have  to  fol- 
low him  ;  as  he  had  thought  it  over,  on  the  ferryboat, 
while  he  was  talking  of  express  companies  and  crowds  so 
commonplacely,  he  had  almost  resolved,  he  coul  I  not  leave 
her,  come  what  might.  But  another  doubtful  look  on 
Davis'  face  had  settled  it ;  she  must  go  alone,  if  she  died  as 
the  result  of  going  so.  And  indeed  her  face  would  have 


A  PEKFEGT  ADONIS.  249 

given  a  more  unconcerned  person  a  feeling  of  alarm.  She 
certainly  was  not  in  a  fit  state  to  drive  three  miles  alone 
through  this  terrible  heat,  with  a  strange  driver  on  the  box, 
who  would  probably  give  neither  eye  nor  ear  to  her  till  they 
reached  their  destination.  She  might  well  die  and  he  be 
none  the  wiser. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  that's  the  best  thing  she  can  do," 
thought  Felix  bitterly,  as  he  watched  the  carriage  whirl 
around  a  corner,  while  he  walked  by  Davis'  side,  "  and  then 
Til  try  the  temperature  of  the  river,  and  there  will  be  ar 
end." 

Yes,  he  had  said  good-bye  to  her  forever,  and  his  heart 
was  as  sore  as  if  he  had  known  that  she  was  dead;  it 
seemed  to  him  as  he  walked  along  the  miserable,  crowded, 
dtining  street,  that  no  greater  sacrifice  had  ever  been  asked 
of  any  living  man.  Very  black  and  hateful  his  life  looked 
to  him  at  that  moment ;  it  only  might  have  been  darker  by 
one  shade  ;  he  still  had  something  that  he  must  do  for  her. 
And  something  so  imperative,  that  unless  he  did  it  faith- 
fully, she  might  much  better  have  been  dead.  He  knew 
that  unless  he  were  seen  in  Milford  that  night,  she  was  a 
ruined  woman :  that  unless  he  made  clear  to  the  senses  of 
this  tattling  boy,  that  no  moment  of  the  three  hours  that  he 
spent  in  town  was  spent  with  her,  her  honor  and  her  posi- 
tion in  the  world  were  compromised  beyond  redemption. 
When  he  thought  how  innocent  and  how  sinned  against  she 
was,  he  felt  as  if  no  pain  would  ever  be  too  great  to  be  put  upon 
him.  His  infatuation  and  cruel  selfishness  overwhelmed 
him  with  remorse.  He  felt  the  cold  sweat  start  on  his  fore- 
lead  when  he  thought  of  the  danger  he  had  placed  her  in. 

"  You  look  quite  fagged  out,"  said  Davis,  looking  at  him 
askance,  as  they  toiled  through  the  reeking  streets  that  bor- 
der the  city  front. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  believe  there  never  was  a  worse  day 
iince  the  world  was  made,"  said  Felix,  wiping  his  forehead 
«n<l  taking  off  his  hat.  He  had  been  off  his  guard  a  mo 


250  A  PERFECT  ADONI& 

ment,  and  had  forgotten  that  the  fellow  was  beside 
He  now  knew  that  it  would  not  do  to  trifle ;  his  compan- 
ion was  awake  if  he  was  not.  "  Let's  get  through  our 
business  in  the  shortest  metre,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  meant  to 
be  jovial,  "and  you'll  dine  with  me  at  Delmonico's,  whore 
we'll  take  our  ease  till  it's  time  to  catch  the  train." 

Davis  was  something  of  a  gourmand,  and  was  kept  rathei 
short  of  money  by  his  father  besides,  so  that  the  prospect 
of  a  dinner  at  Delmonico's  with  such  a  lavish  prince  as 
Felix  spread  a  rosy  color  over  everything.  It  was  arranged 
that  they  should  meet  at  the  restaurant  in  half  an  hour ; 
the  business  that  he  had  in  Wall  street  wouldn't  consume  a 
moment  more.  At  the  corner  of  Broadway  he  was  saying 
good-bye  to  Felix. 

"  My  business  is  in  Wall  street,  too,"  said  Felix,  "  let's 
gat  into  this  stage." 

At  the  door  of  an  office  in  Wall  street,  Davis  stopped. 
"  It's  about  some  plaguy  stocks  of  father's,"  he  said,  '«  about 
which  I'm  sent  to  town  twenty  times  every  summer.  But 
I  won't  be  many  minutes." 

"  I'm  going  in  there,"  said  Felix,  pointing  opposite ; 
•'  when  you've  finished  your  business,  come  in  for  me ;  then 
there'll  be  no  waiting." 

He  determined  that  in  the  far  future,  in  any  contingency 
that  might  arrive,  there  should  be  no  ten  minutes  in  that 
bitter  day  that  should  be  unaccounted  for. 

"  The  keen  demands  of  appetite  "  carried  Davis  quickly 
through  the  matter  of  the  stocks ;  in  fifteen  minutes  he  was 
in  the  lawyer's  office  where  Felix  was  writing  a  letter  at  a 
desk. 

"  My  man  is  out  of  town,"  he  said,  motioning  Davis  to  a 
•eat,  "and  I've  had  my  journey  pretty  much  for  nothing. 
But  I'll  soon  be  through  my  letter,  if  you'll  wait  a  minute.'* 

The  letter  was  to  Dorla.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would 
ease  his  pain  unspeakably,  if  he  could  make  her  understand 
why  he  left  her  when  she  seemed  PO  ill ;  if  he  could  put  he» 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  251 

Rt  rest  about  his  future  persecutions,  if  he  could  make  her 
lee  how  penitent  he  was,  and  how  thoroughly  he  saw  the 
wrong  that  he  had  done  her.  The  pen  slid  rapidly  over  the 
paper,  and  then  came  to  a  sudden,  final  halt.  This  was  trea^ 
son  to  his  resolution.  He  had  said  good-bye,  he  had  swonj 
never  to  disturb  her  more.  What  good  could  this  do  ?  was 
not  even  this  compromising  her  afresh  ?  Felix  had  a  nice 
sense  of  honor  when  it  was  not  under  the  cloud  of  a  passion  to 
which  he  was  given  up.  He  tore  the  sheet  in  two,  and 
crushed  it  in  his  hands. 

"  Confound  it,"  he  said,  mindful  of  his  audience,  "  I 
don't  believe  I  can  make  the  fellow  understand.  What's 
the  good  of  a  lawyer  that's  always  running  out  of  town." 

Then  he  took  a  fresh  sheet,  and  wrote  a  business  letter 
with  deliberation ;  one  can  always  find  something  to  write 
about  to  one's  lawyer.  When  this  was  accomplished,  he 
called  a  clerk  and  delivered  it  to  him  with  many  charges. 

Then  he  summoned  Davis,  who  obeyed  with  much  alacrity, 
and  they  went  together  to  Delmonico's.  Felix  was  always 
looked  upon  as  such  a  swell,  and  so  given  up  to  the  lavish 
and  the  grand,  that  Davis  suspected  no  ulterior  design  in 
the  prodigality  of  the  repast.  He  ate  and  drank,  and  his 
htrart  grew  soft  towards  Felix ;  he  repented  him  of  all  his 
evil  thoughts,  he  looked  upon  him  as  a  prince,  he  felt  him- 
self £  more  important  man  for  the  experiences  of  this  day. 
For  Felix,  by  reason  of  his  good  looks,  his  money,  social 
advantages,  and  much  life  abroad,  ranked  higher  than  any 
man  whom  Davis  could  count  as  his  acquaintance.  He 
almost  felt  that  they  were  intimate,  over  their  iced  cham- 
pagne. He  wished  a  great  many  could  see  them  as  they 
«reni  ovj  arm-in-arm,  which  they  did  at  last,  smoking  cigars 
which  would  have  put  Davis  in  arrears  for  a  month,  if  he 
had  had  to  pay  for  them.  He  vaguely  felt  that  anything 
•ras  excusable  in  a  man  who  could  habitually  command  such 
'uxuries  as  these. 

When  they  had  made  their  way  through  the   dense,  hot 


4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

crowd  again,  and  found  themselves  upon  the  ferryboat^ 
Felix  shook  himself  clear  of  his  companion  for  a  moment, 
and  went  out  upon  the  stern,  and  gazed  back  over  the 
waters  upon  the  city  they  had  left.  The  evening  breeze 
was  cool  and  soft ;  the  day's  turmoil  was  at  an  end ;  they 
were  past  all  the  evil  sights  and  sounds  and  smells ;  the 
faint  mist  of  twilight  was  settling  over  the  great,  cruel  hive 
of  suffering  and  sin.  But  somewhere  there  in  the  vast, 
palpitating  crowd,  was  hid  that  fair  face  that  he  must  never 
look  upon  again,  that  sweetness  and  that  joy  that  were  lost 
to  him  forever.  He  leaned  over  the  rail,  and  looked  into 
the  dark  cold  water,  and  back  to  the  lessening  city,  with  its 
dim  veil  of  smoke  and  its  few  faint,  early  lights  ;  and  then 
there  came  a  noisy  jar,  and  a  dying-away  of  the  cool  breeze, 
and  a  movement  among  the  crowd,  and  their  little  voyage 
was  ended.  They  stepped  out  upon  the  wharf,  from  one 
city  to  another,  from  one  cro\?d  to  its  sister,  from  turmoil  to 
turmoil,  with  one  still  breath  of  thought  between. 

The  day  had  been  such  a  strain  to  Felix  that  he  felt 
jaded  and  weary,  and  as  if  he  had  spent  half  a  life  since 
it  began.  Davis  was  tired  too,  and  passed  the  hours  of  the 
journey  fast  asleep  beside  him.  Felix  was  tired  enough  to 
sleep,  but  sleep  would  not  come.  Heavy-eyed  and  unspeak- 
ably weary,  he  waked  Davis  when  they  reached  the  station, 
and  they  got  into  the  carriage  for  which  he  had  telegraphed 
back  to  Milford  from  the  city. 

"  Well,  we  haven't  had  such  a  bad  day  after  all,"  said 
eloepy  Davis,  when  the  silent  drive  was  nearly  over,  remem- 
oering  the  iced  champagne. 

*'  It  has  been  very  hot,"  said  Felix  simply,  in  return. 

Arrived  at  the  hotel,  Felix  was  almost  moved  to  feeling 
by  finding  his  mother  waiting  for  him.  She  looked  rather 
anxious,  but  was  not  the  woman  to  ask  questions.  "  I've 
just  got  through  a  game  of  whist,"  she  said  apologeticallyj 
(it  was  almost  two  hours  ago,)  "  and  I  thought  I'd  stay  about 
fcho  piazza  for  a  little  while  to  see  if  you  were  come." 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  253 

Felix  thanked  her  in  an  unmeaning  way.  He  WM  almost 
too  tired  to  speak.  "  I  want  something  to  eat,"  he  said,  "  il 
that  can  be  got." 

"  Come  over  to  the  cottage,"  she  said,  pleased,  "  and  Rose 
shall  give  you  some  sardines,  and  some  peaches,  and  a  biscuit, 
and  a  glass  of  wine." 

Felix  made  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "  T  could  not  eat  such 
things,"  he  said.  "  I'll  see  if  they  can't  give  me  some  cold 
beef  and  ale." 

For  he  had  one  fixed  idea  that  all  his  weariness  could  not 
obliterate,  and  that  was,  that  as  many  people  as  could,  should 
see  that  he  had  come  back  to-night  to  Milford.  Davis 
yawned  disgusted. 

"  How  can  you,  Varian,  after  those  last  pates  ?  " 

"  The  pates  are  things  of  the  past,"  said  Felix  doggedly, 
though  his  soul  loathed  the  thought  of  the  cold  beef. 

"  Well,  then,  I  suppose  I  may  go,"  said  his  mother,  seeing 
nothing  else  to  do.  It  made  her  so  uncomfortable  to  see 
Felix's  haggard  face,  that  she  was  rather  glad  to  get  out  of 
the  sight  of  it,  if  she  couldn't  do  him  any  good. 

It  was  a  hard  matter  to  get  anything  to  eat  at  such  an 
hour,  but  after  a  little  effort,  some  remnants  of  the  dinner's 
beef  were  put  upon  the  table,  some  bread  and  butter,  and  a 
bottle  of  Bass'  ale.  Davis  reconsidered  the  matter,  and  con- 
cluded to  assist  him ;  one  or  two  stray  euchre  players  came 
in  and  joined  them ;  a  small  party  of  belated  excursionists 
saw  them  through  the  window,  and  Felix  felt  repaid  for  the 
effort  he  made  to  swallow  the  insipid  beef. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  were  ever  so  many  people  up  at 
this  hour  before  in  Milford,"  said  Davis,  looking  round  sur- 
prised. 

"  What  a  comfort  to  think  that  we  are  welcomed  back  !  " 
said  Felix,  lighting  his  cigar. 

Felix  stayed  one  week  longer  in  Milford.  There  was 
nothing  further  said  about  the  three  days  by  his  mother. 
She  had  heard  about  Dorla's  absence,  and  she  understood  it 


254  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

all.  There  is  one  advantage  in  these  undemonstrative  peo- 
ple: they  do  not  torture  you  with  questions  when  you 
cannot  stand  it.  Felix  could  not  have  endured  a  question, 
but  he  was  very  willing  his  mother  should  know  all  there 
was  to  know,  in  fact  was  a  little  comforted  by  her  sympathy 
and  approbation,  so  long  as  they  were  silent. 

When  he  told  her  he  had  written  to  take  passage  for 
Liverpool  by  the  steamer  of  the  31st  she  had  the  good  sense 
to  make  no  observation  that  she  would  not  have  made  a 
year  ago,  if  he  had  told  her  the  same  thing. 

He  made  himself  very  pleasant  to  every  one  with  whom 
tie  cams  in  contact.  He  was  particularly  careful  to  be  civil 
to  Davis  and  to  Oliver.  The  young  women  sighed  about 
him,  and  wished  the  summer  were  just  at  Its  beginning.  It 
must  have  been  all  a  misapprehension  about  that  Rothermel 
affair,  at  least  as  far  as  his  part  in  it  went. 

After  two  or  three  days  there  was  an  announcement  in 
,he  papers,  of  the  death  of  Henry  St.  John.  And  after 
three  or  four  more,  Dorla  in  deep  mourning,  and  looking 
very  wan,  was  seen  by  some  one  to  arrive.  Mrs.  Yarian  be- 
fore this  had  called  at  the  farm-house,  and  heard  that 
George  was  with  his  wife  in  the  city,  and  had  learned  on 
what  day  she  was  expected  home.  At  noon  of  that  day  she 
arrived ;  and  at  five  o'clock,  Felix  h&d  said  his  last  words  to 
his  family  and  his  friends,  and  was  gotte  from  Milford.  Four 
days  afterward,  he  had  left  America. 


III. 

|1!  was  a  year  and  a  half  later,  and  Felix  was  again 
at  home.  A  letter  from  his  mother,  misdirected, 
had  followed  him  from  place  to  place,  and  at  last 
came  into  his  hands,  six  or  eight  months  old,  at  Rome,  where 
he  was  established  for  the  winter.  Other  letters  from  her 
had  come  straight  enough  since  this  was  written,  but  as  was 
natural  to  her,  she  had  never  alluded  to  its  contents  in  any 
of  them.  Four  hours  after  he  received  it,  he  was  on  his  way 
to  Havre.  And  this  is  what  the  letter  said : 

"  MY  DEAR  FELIX — You  know  I  don't  like  to  write  letters ; 
so,  as  I  have  thought  it  best  that  you  should  know  all  about 
poor  Dorla,  I  have  told  Harriet  to  write  you  the  particulars. 
As  she  enjoys  writing  always,  this  is  no  hardship  to  her.  I 
will  only  add  this  assurance  to  you,  that  I  have  done  all  1 
could  for  her  comfort  and  safety,  and  that  she  is  at  present 
in  the  city.  I  think  her  health  improving,  though  she  fa 
much  shattered  by  all  she  has  passed  through. 

"  Your  letters  come  very  regularly,  but  I  think  they  might 
be  longer ;  now,  don't  you  think  they  might  yourself  ?     But 
I  suppose  I  am  not  the  one  to  talk  about  short  letters. 
"  Affectionately  your  mother, 

"ISABELLA  YARIAN." 

It  may  be  judged  with  what  haste  Felix,  tore  open  the 
enclosure,  and  with  what  impatience  he  ran  through  the  pre- 
liminary pages  of  the  prolix  Harriet's  letter.  At  last  he 
came  to  this : 

"  I  suppose  mamma  has  told  you  (or  no,  I  believe  sh« 


256  A  PEMFEOl   ADONIS. 

said  she  hadn't  told  you,  and  that  I  must  do  it  when  1 
wrote)  about  the  Rothermels,  and  all  that  that  poor  girl 
has  gOAe  through.  She  stayed  at  Milford  all  the  winter ; 
nothing  could  persuade  her  to  come  away  even  for  a  little 
visit,  although  mamma  wrote  and  asked  them.  (I  think  it 
was  very  kind  of  her,  for  George,  poor  fellow,  would  have 
been  very  tiresome  in  the  house.)  But  Dorla  would  not 
come.  And  towards  spring,  George  was  taken  down  with 
that  same  dreadful  fever  that  he  had  the  year  before.  (So 
after  all  it  wasn't  on  account  of  Dorla's  treatment  of  him, 
that  he  was  so  ill,  then.  I  should  think  it  would  have  en- 
raged her  so  to  know  it,  after  making  such  a  sacrifice ;  but 
no  matter  now.)  Then  the  old  mother  was  taken  down,  and 
Dorla  nursed  them  both,  and  none  of  the  -neighbors  would 
come  near  them.  George  lay  between  life  and  death,  six 
weeks  and  more,  and  then,  poor  fellow,  (I  always  liked  him, 
he  was  so  good-natured  !)  then  he  died,  and  after  that  the 
mother.  Then  Dorla  broke  down  at  last,  and  had  a  fright- 
ful illness.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  fever  or  what 
it  was,  but  for  some  time  she  was  in  the  greatest  danger. 
Mamma  was  very  kind ;  she  sent  up  nurses,  and  a  doctor, 
and  everything  that  she  could  think  of  to  make  her  comfort- 
able. It  must  have  been  very  lonely  for  the  poor  thing ; 
but  then  she's  always  led  a  lonely  kind  of  life.  Her  babj 
was  born  in  May,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  old  enough,  mamma 
insisted  that  she  should  come  away  from  that  dreadful  place, 
and  the  last  of  June  she  came  here  with  it  for  a  week  or  two, 
and  stayed  while  we  looked  up  apartments  for  her.  ThanV 
Heaven,  she  has  left  Milford,  and  never  wants  to  look  at  n 
again.  There  does  not  seem  to  be  any  one  to  do  anything  for 
her.  The  guardian,  or  the  person  who  looks  after  her  prop 
erty  (and  she  is  quite  well  off,  they  say),  is  a  stupid  sort  of 
person,  who  never  seems  to  think  she  needs  any  care,  and 
bestows  it  all  upon  her  bonds  and  mortgages.  She  is  now 
very  comfortably  fixed  in  pretty  airy  rooms,  and  has  good 
servants.  Mamma  insists  she  must  go  out  of  town:  but  she 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  257 

doesn't  seem  inclined  to  go  with  us,  though  mamma  asked 
her,  and  seems  disappointed.  I  suppose  she  wants  to  be 
more  quiet.  She  promises  to  go  somewhere  bye  and  bye.  Bu« 
I  don't  think  she  ought  to  be  alone.  She  really  looks  most 
shockingly.  You'd  never  say  she  had  ever  been  a  pretty 
person.  The  child  isn't  in  the  least  like  her ;  a  little  white, 
scared-looking  thing.  I  can't  imagine  what  she  sees  in  it. 
But  then  I  am  not  fond  of  children.  Now  good-bye.  This 
is  the  longest  letter  !  Write  to  us  from  Florence,  and  tell 
us  if  you  saw  the  Collinsons." 

It  was  the  first  of  February,  when  this  letter  came  to 
Felix's  hands;  before  the  first  of  March  he  was  in  his 
mother's  house  in  New  York.  They  had  gone  to  Washington 
for  a  month ;  Harriet  found  the  winter  in  one  place  always 
too  long  for  her.  It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  ob- 
tained the  address  of  Mrs.  Jlothermel,  but  through  the  ser- 
vants, it  was  got  at  last ;  and  about  noon  the  day  after  he 
landed  in  New  York,  he  found  himself  standing  on  the  steps 
of  the  house  to  which  he  had  been  directed. 

It  was  a  bleak  March  day,  no  sun,  no  warmth ;  a  chill,  strong 
wind,  that  cut  through  all  defences,  carried  choking  clouds  of 
dust.  Felix,  a  lover  of  soft  air  and  Southern  scents,  could 
scarcely  have  told  whether  the  wind  blew  cold  or  warm.  His 
journey  had  been  one  long,  impatient,  ardent  battle  against 
tides  and  winds,  which  kept  him  from  her ;  he  had  had  but 
one  thought ;  and  now  he  had  attained  his  wished-for  haven, 
and  in  a  moment  more  should  look  upon  her  face.  The  ser- 
vant was  not  well  instructed ;  in  Dorla's  house,  perhaps, 
there  were  not  many  visitors.  She  led  him  through  the  hall, 
and  ushered  him  without  warning  into  a  room  where  Dorla 
always  spent  her  time.  It  was  a  sort  of  library,  sitting- 
room,  anything  you  please;  a  pretty  room  into  which 
the  sun  shone  when  there  was  a  sun,  and  which  even  now 
was  light  from  the  large  windows,  curtained  with  embroid- 
ered muslin.  The  carpet  was  dark,  the  furniture  graceful 
und  modern.  Dorla  herself  was  in  the  room. 


258  4  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

When  the  door  opened,  she  had  her  back  towards  it .  with 
the  baby  in  her  arms  she  was  standing  before  a  picture. 
She  turned  listlessly  when  the  door  moved,  as  if  she  were 
not  looking  for  agreeable  surprises,  and  as  if  it  were  "  all  one  " 
to  her  who  came  in,  as  long  as  they  didn't  take  away  the  baby. 
It  was  not  quite  "all  one"  though,  when  her  eyes  fell  on 
Felix.  She  started,  and  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  she 
could  not  speak ;  then  she  gave  a  little  tight  grasp  to  the 
child  in  her  arms,  and  came  slowly  forward  into  the  room  to 
meet  him. 

He  tried  to  speak  steadily.  In  a  moment  it  became  easier 
to  him,  for  he  did  not  feel  as  if  he  spoke  to  Dorla.  The 
change  in  her  face,  its  great  pallor,  its  great  loss  of  beauty, 
but  more  than  all  its  changed  expression — her  long  black 
dress,  her  widow's  cap,  and  above  everything,  the  white- 
draped  little  baby  hiding  its  face  on  her  shoulder,  staggered 
him  as  he  looked.  Her  manner  too.  He  had  taught  him- 
self to  believe  that  in  years  to  come,  if  they  should  ever 
meet,  his  eyes  would  call  that  passionate  color  into  her  face; 
which  they  had  never  failed  to  call  there  since  the  last  dance 
that  they  had  danced  together.  And  in  all  his  troubles 
this  had  never  had  a  part,  that  it  was  possible  for  her  to 
change.  And  now  a  paltry  year  and  a  half  had  passed,  and 
they  were  again  together,  and  she  was  changed.  It  was  not 
the  pallor  and  the  loss  of  beauty  ;  that  would  only  have 
made  her  dearer  to  him.  But  it  was  the  indescribable 
something  that  had  grown  up  since  they  parted,  or  that  had 
faded  away  during  the  time  that  had  elapsed.  Perhaps,  he 
tried  to  reassure  himself,  it  was  that  he  had  been  imagining 
so  different  a  meeting,  and  because,  strangely,  he  had  given 
BO  little  thought  to  the  existence  of  the  child.  It  gave  him 
a  fierce  pang  to  see  it  in  her  arms ;  he  had  never  thought  oi 
her  in  that  way.  He  glanced  away  from  the  white  snow- 
drop of  a  baby  with  a  jealous  hatred. 

And   the  baby  seemed  to  answer  to  his  feeling  for  hec 
She  drew  herself  away  in  a  shrinking  manner  from  bim, 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  259 

clutched  her  mother's  dress,  and  laying  her  small,  down 
covered  head  on  her  mother's  shoulder,  kicked  with  her  tinj 
feet,  and  looked  at  him  from  this  position  with  a  glance  of  ani 
mosity.  She  was  not  at  all  a  pretty  baby — very  tiny,  very 
<vhite,  with  light  eyes  and  no  hair,  but  looking  as  if  she 
knew  more  than  a  baby  had  a  right  to  know.  She  was  not 
tea.  months  old,  and  in  her  light  eyes  there  was  the  specula- 
tion and  intelligence  of  ten  years.  Her  demonstration  of 
aversi  >n,  when  Felix  took  her  mother's  hand,  entirely  re- 
stored the  latter's  self-possession,  the  startled  look  disap- 
peared, her  whole  interest  was  centred  on  the  child. 

"  Baby,  what  is  it  ?  "  in  an  unutterably  tender  voice,  that 
filled  Felix  with  impotent  wrath  aud  jealousy.  "  What  is 
it,"  putting  her  hand  over  the  struggling  little  feet,  and 
holding  her  closer  as  she  sank  into  a  sofa  near.  The  baby, 
reassured,  became  quiet,  but  never  lifted  her  head,  and  con- 
tinued to  gaze  at  Felix  from  her  curious  eyes.  In  a  mo- 
ment, for  nothing  beyond  the  most  simple  words  of  greeting 
had  passed  between  them,  Dorla  said  : 

"  I  was  not  expecting  to  see  you.  I  did  not  know  that 
you  were  coming  back.  I  wonder  Harriet  has  not  spoken  of 
it." 

"  Harriet  did  not  know  that  I  was  coming.  It  was  quite 
a  sudden  movement." 

"  How  happy  it  must  make  your  mother  !  I  think  she  al- 
ways wishes  you  would  stay  at  home." 

"  I  have  not  seen  my  mother.  You  know  they  are  in 
Washington." 

"  Yes,  but  I  supposed  you  had  been  there." 

"  I  only  landed  yesterday  at  six." 

Dorla  gave  a  quick  sort  of  breath.  She  almost  knew 
why  he  had  come  home,  from  that.  "  You  will  give  them 
l  great  surprise.  Do  you  go  on  to-day  ?  " 

"  Probably  not,"  he  answered  coldly .  "  There  is  time 
mough." 

"  T   think  you  will   find    Mrs.    Varian   looking  a   little 


260  A  PERFECT  ADONI& 

older,"  said  Borla.  "  She  has  not  been  quite  as  well  thii 
winter.  Still  it  is  possibly  not  much.  The  change  to 
Washington  may  do  her  good." 

"  The  last  thing  to  do  anybody  good  as  I  remember  it." 

"But  you  know  Mrs.  Yarian  is  different.  She  likes 
change,  and  is  the  better  for  excitement.  And  you,  I  think 
I've  heard  you  say,  only  want  rest  and  quiet,  when  you  are 
not  well." 

"  It  is  so  seldom  that  I  am  not  well,  I  scarcely  know  what 
£  do  want  in  that  condition." 

"  You  look  well,"  she  said,  raising  her  eyes,  unembarrassed, 
to  his  face,  for  a  moment.  Felix  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a 
strange  land  indeed,  everything  was  slipping  away  from 
aim,  the  past,  and  what  he  had  assured  himself  would  be  the 
future.  That  quiet,  simple  look  of  Dorla's  eyes,  as  she  said 
"  you  look  well,"  and  studied  his  face  for  an  instant,  abso- 
lutely stunned  him. 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  say  the  same  of  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  much  better  than  I  have  been,"  she  answered  matter- 
of-factly.  "  I  believe  I  should  have  been  better,  if  I  had 
been  in  the  country  more  last  summer.  But  I  was  so  weak, 
and  it  was  such  an  effort  to  get  away,  and  it  was  comforta- 
ble here.  The  doctor  said  it  did  not  make  any  difference 
to  baby  while  she  was  so  young,  and  foolishly  I  stayed  till 
August.  I  ought  to  have  taken  Mrs.  Yarian's  advice.  She 
urged  me  not  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  Harriet  wrote  me  of  it.  She  said  my  mother  was 
quite  worried." 

"Your  mother  has  been  so  good  to  me,"  said  Dorla,  with 
sudden  warmth  of  feeling.  t(  I  am  very  much  alone,  having 
no  relatives  and  so  few  friends  ;  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  without  her — at — at  the  time  of  my  great  trouble." 
And  here  the  tears  swam  in  her  eyes.  "  I  never  can  forget 
her." 

Felix  felt  a  stony  sort  of  wrath  come  over  him.  At  the 
time  of  her  great  trouble  !  at  the  time  of  her  great  deliver- 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  261 

ance,  he  should  have  thought  she  might  have  said.  What 
was  she  thinking  of  that  she  failed  to  praise  Providence  for 
setting  her  free  so  soon  ?  Were  women  all  false,  or  were 
they  all  fools  ?  Was  there  an  accredited  time  of  weepkigj, 
from  which  there  could  be  no  exemption?  He  found  him- 
self growing  bitter  towards  this  dreary  widow.  His  faco 
gr*>w  so  hard  and  dark  that  baby  grew  afraid  or  peevish, 
and  set  up  a  little  whine.  She  was  not  a  baby  to  cry ;  she 
moaned  and  whined  when  she  was  not  pleased.  Instantly 
the  little  whine  roused  her  mother  to  the  keenest  life. 

"  It  is  her  teeth  that  trouble  her,  I  am  sure,"  she  said.  The 
child  kicked  again  with  her  very  small  feet,  and  fretted  with  au 
added  emphasis,  and  Dorla' s  face  was  clouded  with  anxiety. 
She  rose  and  walked  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  room, 
Boothing  the  child  with  soft  words,  quite  forgetting  Felix. 

"  Excuse  me  one  moment,"  she  said,  remembering  him  as 
she  went  towards  the  door. 

Felix  hoped  that  it  was  to  send  the  little  torment  to  the 
D.urse  up-stairs.  But  it  was  no  such  thing.  It  was  only  to 
have  the  rattle  and  some  playthings  brought  to  her.  The 
nurse  sat  up-stairs  all  day  blandly  sewing,  and  all  day  and 
all  night  the  baby  was  in  Dorla's  arms.  When  the  nurse 
took  her  out  into  the  street,  Dorla  walked  in  sight  of  the 
little  carriage.  When  she  drove  herself,  the  baby  was  be- 
side  her. 

While  she  stood  at  the  door,  and  gave  her  orders  to  the 
nurse,  Felix  got  up  and  walked  impatiently  about  the  room. 
And  as  he  did  so,  his  eye  fell  on  a  picture — the  picture  be- 
fore which  Dorla  had  been  standing  when  he  entered.  It 
was  a  portrait  of  George  Rothermel ;  strongly  resembling 
Jm,  but  indefinably  flattered.  It  was  the  face  of  a  very 
handsome  man,  young,  grave,  thoughtful.  It  was  difficult  to 
remember  his  smallness,  his  provincialism,  and  be  patient 
with  the  artisc.  But  there  was  no  denying  the  resemblance : 
it  was  George  Bothermel  who  looked  down  at  you,  only 
with  an  important  element  subtly  interlined.  Such  an  artist 


262  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

ought  to  be  crowned  with  bays  immortal.  The  picture  hung 
beside  the  window,  where  the  day's  best  light  shone  full 
upon  it;  below  it  and  beside  were . fastened  brackets,  and 
on  these  stood  flowers,  fresh  and  lovely,  drooping  before  it, 
t  seined  around  it.  It  was  a  sort  of  shrine. 

When  Felix  turned  to  meet  Dorla  re-entering  the  zoom, 
his  face  was  cold  and  hard,  and  his  voice  as  he  addressed 
her,  cynically  measured.  The  detested  baby  was  still  in  her 
arms. 

"  You  must  find  the — the  child  a  great  care,  Mrs.  Rother- 
mel." 

"  A  care !  O,  no  ;  "  and  Dorla's  voice  trembled  with  its 
unspoken  feeling.  She  did  not  say  in  words,  she  is  my  life, 
my  comfort,  all  I  have  to  live  for,  as  a  more  diffuse  person 
would  have  said  ;  but  Felix  could  not  misinterpret  the  trem- 
ble of  her  voice. 

fl  It  is  a  pleasure  to  see  you  so  occupied  and  interested," 
he  said  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dorla  with  her  eyes  down,  her  pretty, 
slender  hand  passing  and  repassing  softly  pver  the  baby's 
downy  head. 

"I  had  thought  of  you  as — as  alone  and  dreary.  I  see 
that  is  not  so." 

"  No,"  said  Dorla  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  am  never  alone  while 
I  have  my  baby." 

They  had  reseated  themselves,  when  Dorla  came  back 
with  the  baby's  toys.  There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then 
Dorla  said,  making  an  effort  to  speak,  so  as  to  turn  the  con- 
versation from  herself  before  anything  dangerous  should 
come  up : 

"  You  have  not  told  me  anything  of  yourself — your  jour 
neyt  Has  the  winter  been  a  pleasant  one  ?  I  think  Harriet 
said  you  were  in  Rome." 

"  Yes,"  said  Felix  with  easy  indifference.  "  I  have  beer 
in  Rome ;  the  third  winter  I  have  spent  there,  and  I  thinV 
the  pleasantest." 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  263 

Dorla  involuntarily  glanced  at  him  to  see  if  he  mean/ 
this ;  and  her  eyes  fell  quickly.  There  was  nothing  in 
Felix's  face  to  assure  her  that  he  had  come  home  on  her  ac- 
count. She  did  not  understand  exactly  what  she  saw  th  ere. 

They  talked  a  little  more,  about  indifferent  things ;  an-1 
then  the  baby  fretted  again,  and  after  she  had  soothed  i*  anx- 
iously into  quiet,  Felix  saw  on  her  face  a  little  look  of  weari 
ness.  He  started  to  his  feet ;  this  stung  him  more  than  all. 
In  the  half  hour  or  less  he  had  spent  here,  he  had  seen  her, 
a  little  startled,  a  little  cold,  a  little  frightened  and  a  little 
weary.  All  the  life,  all  the  interest  that  her  face  had  shown, 
had  been  called  there  by  the  fretting  baby  in  her  arms.  He 
left  her,  he  hardly  knew  how ;  he  hoped  afterwards  that  he 
had  not  betrayed  the  passion  that  he  felt.  But  it  was  some 
bitter  comfort  to  think  she  probably  had  not  been  at  the 
pains  to  speculate  about  it. 

And  this  was  the  end !  Harder,  harder  far  than  "  the 
end  "  before.  He  went  out  into  the  street  and  set  his  face 
against  the  biting  March  wind,  and  walked  fast  and  fierce. 
The  disappointment  was  very  cruel.  When  he  was  in  her 
presence  he  had  been  too  angry  to  feel  the  whole  weight  of 
his  sorrow ;  though  he  was  still  as  angry,  he  began  to  feel 
what  it  meant  to  him,  and  what  a  chasm  had  opened  in  his 
life.  The  belief  that  she  loved  him  had  been  the  food  as 
well  as  the  poison  of  his  soul.  Now  the  food  and  the  poison 
were  both  gone,  and  he  already  felt  the  agony  of  starvation 
seizing  on  him.  He  had  been  living  in  a  dream  this  year 
and  a  half — a  hopeless,  enervating  dream.  No  woman  had 
ever  been  more  constant,  even  in  hourly  thought,  than 
he  had  been  He  had  carried  the  thought  of  her  through 
every  land  ;  things  present  had  passed  before  him  as  a  misty 
pageant ;  and  she  had  been  the  one  reality. 

And  he  could  not  understand  it ;  he  was  so  angry  that  he 
would  have  been  glad  to  have  believed  her  false,  light  and 
trifling,  feigning  a  love  she  did  not  feel,  and  then  feigning 
i  sorrow  as  unreal.  But  thia  he  could  not,  after  his  first  fury 


264  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

of  disappointment,  bring  himself  to  think.  Dorli  vra»  true, 
whoever  might  be  false ;  she  had  loved  him  once,  she  loved 
him  now  no  more.  Her  nature  was  so  transparent  to  him, 
he  never  could  doubt  that  he  read  aright.  But  what  had 
wrought  the  transformation ;  what  had  chilled  her  towards 
him,  and  put  in  his  place  this  shadowy  ideal  of  the  husband 
whom  she  had  never  loved  ? 

Felix  thought  he  knew  Dorla  well ;  but  no  one  person  can 
know  another  unless  he  has  entered  into  the  other's  life, 
lived  with  him  in  imagination,  or  beside  him  in  reality. 
This  was  what  Felix  failed  to  take  into  account.  The  year 
and  a  half  had  been  to  him  a  smooth,  uneventful  period  out- 
wardly ;  inwardly,  simply  and  entirely  full  of  her.  It  had 
been  to  her  a  cruel  and  suffering  time,  filled  with  hard  and 
bitter  events,  crowding  upon  each  other.  Imagination 
had  had  little  room  for  play ;  physical  suffering,  and  the 
sight  of  physical  suffering ;  a  burden  of  care,  an  overtrial  of 
strength  ;  suspense,  fear,  death ;  the  hard  minutiae  of  bereave- 
ment ;  the  grinding  details  of  funerals  and  burials ;  the 
coarse  trial  of  necessary  household  changes ;  all  these  had 
been  in  Dorla's  lot,  and  had  made  imagination  dead  in  her. 
And  this  without  counting  the  dark  places  she  had  passed 
through  in  her  succeeding  illness ;  the  abyss  of  suffering  into 
which  she  had  been  plunged ;  the  entrance  into  a  new 
heaven  of  love  by  a  roadway  worse  than  death.  All  this  Felix 
failed  to  take  into  account.  He  could  read  her  face,  but  he 
«iad  not  read  her  life,  and  so  he  failed  to  understand. 

Dorla  held  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  whispered  "  we  are 
glad  that  he  is  gone  ; "  and  involuntarily  drew  near  the  win- 
dow and  watched  him  go  away,  holding  the  child's  atom  of  a 
hand  against  her  cheek,  and  wondering  in  her  heart  that  she 
ha<5  no  feeling — no  feeling  good  or  bad.  She  was  in  truth 
*  little  weary,  and  was  glad  that  he  was  gone. 

"  George  is  avenged,  poor  George,"  she  said  to  herself, 
walking  to  the  picture  and  looking  long  at  it.  Sho  tried  t« 
think  sb  3  had  strong  feeling  as  she  looked ;  she  had,  in  a 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  265 

uray ;  he  was  the  father  of  this  child  who  had  transformed 
her  life,  and  he  was,  in  a  measure,  glorified.  Between  the 
time  that  he  had  disappointed  and  disgusted  her,  and  now, 
there  had  been  a  time  of  great  and  cruel  suffering  to  witness. 
He  had  been  thrown  upon  her  tenderness  and  care  ;  she  had 
passed  with  him  through  deep  waters ;  she  had  stood  by  him 
when  the  awful  tide  rose  over  him,  and  he  had  gone  down 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  One  does  not  forget  such  com- 
panionship. Dorla  thought  that  she  had  grown  to  love  her 
husband  before  she  was  parted  from  him ;  after  he  was  gone 
she  had  not  any  doubt  of  it.  When  her  child  was  born  she 
had  wept  his  death  afresh,  and  vowed  to  make  reparation 
for  her  want  of  love  by  devotion  to  his  memory  and  by  mak- 
ing him  a  reality  to  the  child  he  had  never  seen.  Her  im- 
agination and  her  conscience  had  done  him  good  service, 
aided  by  "the  artist  whose  work  had  roused  so  bitter  a  con- 
tempt in  Felix.  She  was  living  an  unreal  life,  but  there  did 
not  happen  to  be  any  one  to  tell  her  of  it.  Unreal,  that  is, 
as  regarded  the  memory  of  her  husband,  and  unhealthy  as 
regarded  her  excessive  devotion  to  her  child;  but  as  far  as 
her  physical  life  was  concerned,  as  matter-of-fact  and  inevita- 
ble as  if  she  had  had  no  imagination  and  no  conscience.  Her 
illness  had  left  her  prostrated  in  strength;  the  child  for 
whom  she  chose  to  live,  drained  daily  from  her,  her  little 
stock  of  health  and  vigor.  Who  does  not  know  the  weariness, 
the  dulness,  that  comes  with  loss  of  bodily  strength  ?  how 
differently  the  world  looks, — how  low  the  tide  of  love  and 
hatred  ebbs  !  Dorla  was  "  aweary."  She  was  low  in  tone, 
she  was  dull  in  thought,  she  was  listless  and  unenergetic.  She 
thought  it  was  wholly  because  George  was  dead,  and  her 
life  had  suffered  a  great  change — because  she  had  turned  from 
her  appalling  sin  and  been  received  repentant  back  to  virtue ; 
but  it  was  partly  too  because  the  rich  current  of  her  blood  was 
paled  and  chilled,  and  nerves  and  tissues,  of  which  she  did  not 
5ven  km  w  the  name,  were  weakened  and  degenerated.  She 
felt  feebly  thankful  for  her  emancipation,  and  touched  he? 
12 


266  ^  PERFECT  ADONI& 

dreary  widow's  dress  with  a  sort  of  reverence.  She  thought 
of  herself  as  no  longer  a  young  woman ;  and  the  future  had 
only  Baby  in  it,  and  poor  people,  and  church,  and  humble 
weary  work. 

And  so  she  sent  Felix  away,  not  quite  sure  thai  she  had 
Bent  him,  but  feeling  it  vaguely,  and  seeing  it  in  his  fierce, 
quick  walk,  as  he  went  down  the  street,  and  in  his  com 
pressed  lips  and  fiery  eyes.  "George  is  avenged,  poor 
George !  "  she  said  to  herself,  holding  the  baby  tight,  and 
walking  up  and  down  the  room. 

Yes,  in  a  way,  poor  George  was  signally  avenged. 


JEW  YORK  is  a  big  place  ;  it  is  quite  possible  to 
live  in  it  a  good  many  years,  and  never  see  a  per- 
son whom  you  do  not  seek,  who  may  be  living 
there  as  well.  Felix,  after  he  saw  his  mother,  had  not  the 
heart  to  go  away  again.  Dorla  was  right;  she  had  aged 
very  much.  She  clung  to  Felix,  and  he  never  even  hinted 
at  the  possibility  of  going  away  again.  Fortunately  for  him, 
Uiey  were  not  very  much  in  the  city.  There  were  the  usual 
fcummer  absences,  and  the  winters  now  must  be  mostly  spent 
in  Florida.  He  was  henceforth  a  good  son,  and  did  his 
duty  with  tenderness,  but  he  had  a  very  bitter  and  desolate 
heart,  which  even  his  mother's  newly  shown  affection  could 
not  soothe.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  go  very  far  away. 
He  felt  as  if  it  kept  him  sore  to  have  to  know  that  Dorla 
lived  so  near  him  ;  he  had  to  hear  her  name  sometimes,  and 
to  know  that  she  had  been  at  the  house.  He  had  to  answer 
Harriet's  questions,  and  to  sustain  himself  under  his  mother'a 
more  penetrating  eyes.  But  he  managed  to  deceive  them 
both. 

"  You  see,"  said  Harriet,  with  a  good-natured  sneer,  if 
fcuch  a  thing  is  possible ;  "  you  see  it  is  as  I  told  you  it 
would  bo.  He  doesn't  want  her  now  that  he  can  have  her  " 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  267 

"  Yes,  I  see/'  said  Mrs.  Yarian,  with  a  little  sigh.  It 
W&B  a  disappointment  to  her,  but  she  did  not  talk  about 
it. 

Poor  woman  !  Everything  was  growing  a  vague  and  weary 
disappointment  to  her,  with  the  receding  strength  and  spirits 
that  had  made  her  life  so  comfortable.  But  she  was  not  bit- 
ter, and  she  made  no  moan.  Only  she  began  to  see  things 
differently,  and  to  wish  deep  down  in  her  heart  that  she  had 
seen  them  so  before  the  days  came  when  she  "  had  no 
pleasure  in  them." 

Harriet  could  not  give  up  the  world,  and  so  for  the  two 
years  that  she  still  lived,  the  house  was  not  a  dull  one. 
There  was  a  dull  sick  room  in  it,  though ;  ah,  such  a  dull  and 
weary  one !  But  no  complaint  came  from  it,  and  the  house- 
hold life  went  on  as  usual.  At  this  time  Felix  would  have 
been  very  glad  if  he  could  have  married,  or  could  have  found 
any  charm  in  society.  But  there  is  a  point  beyond  whicl 
one  cannot  force  one's  self :  and  it  was  all  worse  thaD  wearj 
to  him.  Not  that  he  fancied  that  he  still  loved  Dorla.  He 
was  too  angry  and  bitter  and  disappointed,  to  fancy  that ; 
but  somehow,  that  year-and-a-half-long  dream  had  taken  out 
of  reality  all  flavor  of  enjoyment.  It  was  a  mercy  that  he 
had  one  duty  and  that  he  recognized  it.  He  perhaps  was 
laved,  by  the  performance  of  that  duty,  from  much  evil  and 
despair. 

And  when  the  two  years  were  ended,  and  in  a  dreary 
Bouthern  exile  the  poor  mother  passed  into  a  longer  exile 
from  the  things  that  she  had  loved,  Felix  rose  up  manlier 
and  more  courageous  then  he  had  given  promise.  Business 
life  is  not  very  exalted  or  exalting,  but  it  is  better  than  idle- 
ness. He  was  freed  from  New  York ;  he  was  tired  of  Eu- 
rope. A  chance  word  at  a  ripe  moment  turned  his  thoughts 
to  a  life  in  California.  He  did  not  turn  pastoral  and  buy 
ft  sheep  farm  as  the  heroes  in  English  novels  do  in  Australia, 
liter  they  have  suffered  disappointment  in  matters  of  the 
heart  at  home;  neither  did  he  do  anything  poetical  orpasto- 


268  ^  PERFECT  ADONIh. 

ral.  But  he  went  into  business  in  San  Francisco  in  a  most 
prosaic  way,  and  made  a  great  deal  of  money,  which  isn't  at 
all  to  the  purpose,  as  he  had  plenty  of  that  before.  But  he 
also  made  occupation  and  interest  for  himself,  and  developed 
a  business  ability  that  helped  his  self-respect,  and  entered 
upon  a  life  that  was  really,  in  its  way,  useful  and  invigora- 
ting. 

Harriet,  meanwhile,  had  not  much  need  of  him  or  of  any 
one.  She  led  much  the  sort  of  life  that  she  had  led  before, 
except  that  she  took  rather  a  wider  range,  sad  allowed  her 
enthusiasm  to  lead  her  somewhat  further  away  than  formerly 
from  the  strictest  good  society.  But  she  had  always  been 
eclectic,  and  nobody  was  ever  surprised  at  anything  she  did. 
Also  no  one  criticised  her  with  any  great  severity,  because 
she  had  plenty  of  money,  and  used  it  very  lavishly.  She 
never  ceased  to  be  of  importance  wherever  she  appeared. 
Felix  did  not  feel  uneasy  about  her,  neither  did  he  feel  any 
great  desire  for  her  companionship.  It  would  be  hardly 
possible  for  sister  and  brother  to  love  each  other  less,  and 
yet  be  friends.  They  wrote  to  each  other  with  regularity, 
and  Felix  was  scrupulous  in  the  care  of  her  property,  bv,  t 
there  it  seemed  to  end. 

Finally,  after  three  years  of  this  expatriation,  Felix  felt  a 
sort  of  undefined  desire  to  see  home  again.  He  could  not 
quite  account  for  it ;  possibly,  it  was  because  he  was  getting 
a  little  restless.  He  had  never  been  so  long  in  one  place  be- 
fore. He  tried  to  put  it  on  his  duty  to  Harriet. 

"  Anyway,  I'll  go  for  a  month  or  two  at  least,  and  take  a 
little  rest." 

And  so  he  went.  This  was  five  years  and  four  months 
ifter  the  day  when  he  had  left  Dorla  before  George's  picture, 
with  the  black  dress  and  the  widow's  cap,  and  the  heavy 
eyes,  and  the  white  atom  of  a  baby  in  her  arms.  He  had 
never  seen  her  since  that  day,  and  he  always  thought  of  her 
with  these  adjuncts.  Since  his  mother's  death,  he  had  never 
even  heard  her  name.  He  sometimes  thought  it  possible 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  269 

that  she  was  no  longer  living.  At  times  he  had  a  dreamy 
Bort  of  desire  to  know  what  had  been  her  fate,  and  what  the 
fate  of  her  little  child.  But  it  was  only  at  times.  By-gene* 
were  by-gonea,  and  life  was  full  and  buaj. 


IV 

and  the  Lakes  !  It  seemed  to  Felix  likf 
a  dream,  to  be  passing  through  these  scenes  again. 
He  lived  more  in  that  past  vision  than  he  had  done 
for  a  long  time ;  he  sauntered  leisurely  where  he  had  once 
hurried  fiercely :  he  philosophized  over  his  infatuation,  he 
compared  himself  with  the  man  he  had  been  then,  with  j» 
shiver  of  fear  and  a  sigh  of  regret.  For  while  he  felt  him 
self  healthy  and  sound  again,  far  removed  from  such  passion- 
ate folly,  he  felt  in  his  heart  the  sweetness  of  the  madness  ; 
he  sighed  to  remember  it  was  a  delirium  that  could  never 
come  again.  He  had  long  ceased  to  feel  bitterly  towards 
Dorla.  He  now  began  to  think  of  her  with  a  tender  sort  of 
remembrance.  He  felt  that  he  could  estimate  her  character 
more  truly,  her  mystic  strength,  her  pitiable  weakness.  He 
could  almost  forgive  her  that  she  had  ceased  to  love  him, 
though  he  could  not  understand  it.  He  began  to  think  less 
and  less  of  her  as  the  cold  widow  in  her  dreary  weeds,  the 
absorbed  mother  with  her  fragile  oaby,  and  more  and  more 
of  her  as  the  Helen  of  his  imagination, 

41  Daughter  of  the  Gods,  divinely  tall 
And  most  divinely  fair — " 

He  thought  of  those  brief,  gay  days  "  when  they  were  first 
icquaint,"  of  those  passionate  and  wearing  weeks,  when  she 
was  struggling  against  his  cruel  and  sinful  love.  He  began 
to  wonder  about  her  :  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he  should 
'ike  to  see  her,  if  chance  threw  him  in  her  patii. 

tc  When  I  see  Harriet,  I  must  remember  touak  iier  wh«r« 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  271 

•he  is,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  funny  attempt  at  self-de- 
ception. As  if  there  was  any  danger  that  he  would  not  re- 
member to  ask  Harriet.  Harriet  was  at  Lake  Memphrema- 
gog.  She  had  found  a  new  place  and  was  enraptured  with  it. 
She  had  also  found  i  party  of  artists  who  afforded  her  amuse- 
r\ent;  she  was  very  glad  to  know  Felix  was  coming,  lut 
she  did  not  seem  to  be  impatient  to  see  him.  So  Felix  took 
his  tirno  and  made  the  circuit  of  the.  Lakes  on  his  way  to 
her.  The  weather  was  unusually  good.  He  felt  in  fine 
health ;  he  had  been  out  of  the  way  of  travelling  just  long 
enough  to  make  it  an  enjoyment ;  there  was  nothing  but  the 
fact  that  he  was  alone,  to  take  from  the  pleasure  of  the 
journey.  At  Montreal  that  objection  was  removed. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  he  arrived  there,  he  was 
leisurely  making  his  way  along  Notre  Dame  Street,  when  his 
eye  was  caught  by  the  troubled  face  of  a  young  and  pretty 
girl,  who  was  hurrying  along  the  sidewalk,  and  peering  into 
the  maze  of  vehicles  that  obstructed  the  street.  Then  she 
ran  back  towards  a  shop  and  called  out, 

"  Mamma,  mamma,  the  fellow  has  gone  off,  and  we  shall 
be  left ! " 

But  mamma  was  too  far  back  in  the  shop,  and  too  en- 
grossed with  her  traffic  to  give  heed,  and  the  girl  ran  out 
again,  and  looked  again,  and  went  around  the  corner,  and 
came  back  looking  as  if  she  wanted  to  cry.  That  was  too 
b«4.  She  was  too  pretty  to  be  allowed  to  cry.  So  Felix 
approached  her,  and  said  with  such  distinguished  courtesy 
as  to  make  it  impossible  to  doubt  him, 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  assistance  in  finding  your  carriage  for 
you?" 

Her  face  brightened,  the  cloud  passed  away,  and  the  sun 
burst  out,  (she  was  only  seventeen,  and  Felix  was  still  the 
aandsomest  of  the  handsome.)  "Yes,  I  think  so,  that  is,  I 
nm  much  obliged  to  you.  We  have  only  half  an  hour  before 
the  starting  of  the  boat,  and  ever  so  many  things  to  do.  1 
ion't  know  where  the  man  has  gone." 


272  A  PERFECT  ADO&I8. 

"  Perhaps  to  see  what  the  crowd  is  about  on  the  block  be- 
low," said  Felix.  "  I  have  no  doubt  I  can  find  him  if  you 
will  tell  me  what  sort  of  a  carriage  it  is." 

"  O,  it  is  one  of  those  one-horse  things,  all  gilt  and  glass," 
returned  the  young  lady.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  call 
them.  And  the  driver's  a  Canadian  with  black  eyes  and 
reddish  hair,  and  speaks  abominable  French.  They  aU 
look  alike  ;  I  don't  know  how  to  make  you  understand." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  went  with  me — "  said  Felix. 

She  gave  him  a  doubtful  look,  and  then  moved  forward 
across  the  street.  "  This  is  rather  droll,"  she  said  naively, 
with  a  little  laugh,  after  they  had  walked  a  few  steps  quickly 
and  in  silence. 

"  But  better  than  being  left,  perhaps,"  he  said  demurely. 

"  O,  yes,  a  good  deal." 

They  reached  the  opposite  sidewalk,  and  Felix  found  a 
doorstep  for  her,  that  commanded  a  good  view  of  the  crowd 
of  vehicles  beyond.  "  Can  you  »ee  him  anywhere  among 
them  ?  "  he  said,  watching  her  eyes. 

She  looked  rather  disheartened,  and  said  no.  {( What 
shall  I  do  ?  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  and  there  were  a  dozen  parcels 
in  the  carriage,  and  a  sealskin  sack  and  two  silk  dresses. 
We  have  been  shopping  all  the  afternoon." 

Felix  thought  the  fellow  had  made  off  with  the  "  plunder," 
and  began  to  be  in  earnest.  "  What  sort  of  a  horse  was  it  ? 
Can't  you  remember  ?  I  will  go  and  find  an  officer." 

"  I  can't  remember,"  said  the  girl,  following  him.  "  I  do 
not  think  I  looked.  O,  yes.  Now  I  do  remember ;  the 
horse  was  grey,  and  had  such  hixleous  shoulder-blades." 

Felix  was  amused.  They  hurried  forward,  and  in  a  few 
moments,  out  of  sight,  behind  a  loaded  truck,  Felix  found 
fche  grey  horse  with  the  shoulder-blades,  standing  with  his 
head  down  and  his  worst  foot  lifted  patientlj  before  the 
vehicle  "  all  gilt  and  glass,"  quite  unconscious  of  the  seal, 
skin  sack  and  the  two  silk  dresses  in  his  charge.  The  young 
lady  gave  a  «iry  of  relief. 


4  PERFECT  ADONI8.  273 

"  Ne.w  to  find  the  driver,"  said  Felix:.  But  that  was  not 
10  easy  to  do.  The  plot  had  thickened  evidently  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  crowd.  There  was  no  officer  to  be  fcund  of 
course.  Felix  went  in  and  out  among  the  outer  loungers, 
and  shouted  and  asked  questions,  but  all  to  no  avail ;  in  a 
moment  he  came  back  to  the  young  girl,  who  stood  with  her 
watch  in  her  hand,  and  an  anxious  expression  on  her 
faco.**4 

"  We  shall  be  left,"  she  said.     "  The  wretch  !  " 
t(  I  don't  know  what  to  suggest,"  said  Felix.     "  Unless 
you  let  me  drive  you  to  your  hotel  or  wherever  you  want  to 

go." 

((  We  want  to  go  to  the  Quebec  boat,"  she  said.  "  We 
have  just  left  the  hotel  and  sent  our  baggage  down,  and  we 
were  doing  some  last  shopping  on  our  way." 

Felix  wondered  what  the  first  shopping  must  have  been 
when  the  last  included  a  sealskin  sack,  two  silk  dresses  and 
nine  other  packages.  "  Well,  I  see  nothing  for  it,  but  for 
you  to  let  me  drive  you." 

Between  anxiety  and  amusement,  the  young  girl  knew 
hardly  what  to  do.  ll  We'll  see  what  mamma  says,"  she 
answered  slowly. 

"  Very  well,  I  will  lead  the  horse  if  you  will  go  on,"  re- 
turned Felix,  taking  the  beast  by  the  head  and  walking 
along  as  near  the  sidewalk  as  was  possible. 

Meantime,  his  companion  hurried  forward,  and  met  on 
the  corner,  a  stout,  elderly,  well-dressed  person,  who  fell 
(apparently)  to  upbraiding  her  for  having  given  her  so  much 
anxiety.  The  mother  and  daughter  were  both  evidently  ex- 
citable and  given  to  speak  their  minds ;  though  he  could  not 
hear,  he  could  see  from  the  gesticulations  and  flushed  faces, 
that  there  was  much  difference  of  opinion.  He  went 
as  slowly  as  possible,  to  let  the  agitation  cool  before  he 
joined  the  party,  but  in  their  own  interest  ho  felt  he  should 
not  linger.  It  was  just  eighteen  minutes  now  to  seven 
He  could  not  help  hearing  the  mother  say,  as  he 


274  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

brought  tho  ungainly  horse  to  a  stand-still  in  front  of  th* 
corner  shop, 

"  Better  be  left  a  hundred  times,  than  do  such  a  crazv 
thing  as  this." 

"  Well,  then,  be  left,  and  break  up  the  party,"  cried  the 
girl  impetuously.  And  again  she  looked  as  if  she  certainlj 
would  cry. 

That  mollified  Felix,  who  caught  sight  of  her  face&  lie 
had  meant  to  petrify  the  ungrateful  mother,  by  bowing  and 
withdrawing,  and  leaving  them  to  get  to  the  boat  as  best 
they  could ;  but  the  girl  was  much  too  pretty  to  be  made  to 
cry.  He  assumed  his  most  distinguished  and  high-bred 
manner,  and  turned  to  the  elder  lady  with  a  bow.  She 
moved  forward  to  confront  him  with  flushed  dignity  and  p 
frown.  But  the  words  died  on  his  lips,  and  the  frown  van 
ished  from  her  face  as  their  eyes  met. 

"  Mr.  Varian !  "  she  cried,  and  bursting  into  a  laugh,  pu< 
out  her  hand. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Glover,"  said  Felix,  laughing  as  he  took  it, 
"  you  looked  as  if  you  were  going  to  send  me  off." 

"  I  was,  indeed,"  she  said,  good-humoredly.  t(  I  don't  like 
my  daughter  to  be  so  eloquent  about  anonymous  hackmen. 
For  she  is  grown  up.  See  !  This  is  Abby,  the  little  girl  you 
helped  to  write  French  exercises,  seven  years  ago.  Imagine 
It !  What  a  little  fright  she  then  was,  with  her  hair  d  la 
Kenwigs." 

"  Well,  I  don't  remember  that?  said  Felix,  bowing  to 
the  young  beauty,  whose  eyes  were  dancing  with  interest 
and  excitement. 

"  Mamma  !  And  you  know  him  after  all !  It  ought  to  be 
a  lesson  to  you  to  believe  a  person  is  a  gentleman  when  I 
tell  you  so." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  mother,  too  much  pleased  with 
the  encounter  to  be  severe  upon  her  daughter,  "there  is  no 
lime  to  lose,  if  we  am  going  to  Quebec  to-night,  and  if  Mr 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  275 

Varian  is  still  willing  to  drive  us  to  the  wharf,  now  that  he 
knows  so  much  about  us." 

They  got  into  the  carriage  quickly,,  and  Felix  took  the 
i  sins. 

"  You'll  have  to  tell  me  the  streets,"  he  said,  "  for 
it  is  five  years  smce  I  have  been  in  Montreal." 

"  This  way,"  said  Abby,  pointing ;  but  somehow  her  zeal 
for  catching  the  boat  was  fast  abating. 

"  How  long  are  you  staying  in  Montreal,  Mr.  Varian  ?  " 
said  the  mother. 

"  O,  a  day  or  two,  perhaps.  I  have  no  fixed  policy,  I  am 
only  drifting." 

But  at  this  moment  they  found  themselves  the  centre  of 
an  excited  crowd.  It  is  surprising  how  Canadian  cabmen 
gather,  from  all  points  of  the  compass,  like  "birds  of  evil 
wing  ; "  they  are  around  you  in  a  moment ;  you  cannot  tell 
from  whence  they  come.  This  time  they  were  headed  by 
the  enraged  and  terrified  owner  of  the  grey  horse,  and  much 
be-gilded  carriage.  They  were  present  to  sympathize  with 
him,  and  also  to  take  the  chance  of  a  fare,  if  he  and  the 
travellers  should  come  to  open  rupture.  It  was  very  dim- 
cult  to  understand  his  Canadian  jargon,  or  to  make  him  un- 
derstand that  he  deserved  a  horse- whipping.  Still,  Felix  was 
fierce  enough  in  correct  French  to  make  the  ladies  turn  pale, 
and  the  man,  quite  subdued  and  very  repentant,  crept  up  to 
the  seat  beside  him,  and  assumed  the  reins,  with  liberal 
promises  of  getting  them  to  the  pier  five  minutes  before  the 
steamboat  started.  The  crowd  dispersed,  the  carriage 
bounced  and  rattled  fiercely  over  the  stones,  and  Felix 
)  urned  to  resume  his  conversation. 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Glover,  clutching  the  side  of  the  car- 
riage, "  is  not  this  reckless  driving  ?  " 

"  He  will  break  our  necks  for  us,"  said  Abby,  discontent 
edly.  It  was  evident  she  was  in  less  of  a  hurry  than  she 
had  been  before.  Felix  ordered  him  to  go  raoi«  carefully, 
%nd  then  it  was  possible  to  talk. 


276  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Why  don't  you  join  us,  Mr.  Yarian  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Glover, 
"  We  have  a  pleasant  party,  rather  scattered  to  be  sure  at 
present;  but  we  are  to  meet  at  Quebec  and  go  up  the 
Saguenay.  Why  cannot  you  come  down  the  river  to-morrow 
night  and  join  us  ?  Some  of  our  party  are  coming  on  to-night, 
and  some  of  them  possibly  to-morrow  night.  We  shall  not 
certainly  start  for  the  Saguenay  till  the  day  after.  It  realty 
would  be  very  pleasant."  • 

"  I  am  sure  it  would,"  said  Felix,  non-committal.  But 
Abby  looked  so  anxious  and  so  breathless,  he  had  not  the 
heart  to  be  non-committal  long.  There  was  also  no  earthly 
reason  why  he  should  refuse.  He  had  meant  to  go  up  the 
Saguenay,  and  probably  if  he  had  not  met  them,  would 
have  taken  the  boat  that  they  would  take  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. So  he  had  no  excuse  for  keeping  the  pretty  Abby 
any  longer  in  suspense.  (It  is  probable  if  it  had  been  very 
inconvenient,  he  would  have  gone,  she  was  so  very 
pretty.) 

In  a  moment's  time  it  was  all  arranged,  and  Abby  was 
radiant.  She  had  the  most  ingenuous  way  of  not  disguising 
any  of  her  emotions ;  a  delightful  way,  when  they  were  all 
as  flattering  as  this  last  one  to  Felix.  He  thought  her  a 
most  charming  creature,  and  tried  to  remember  all  he  could 
about  the  French  exercises  and  the  long  braids.  But  in 
those  days  she  had  made  no  impression.  There  were  a  hun- 
dred things  to  ask  and  to  plan  about  the  projected  journey, 
and  they  found  themselves  at  the  wharf  sooner  than  had 
seemed  possible.  Felix  carried  on  board  the  most  bulky  of 
the  precious  packages  ;  saw  to  their  luggage ;  got  the  key  ol 
their  state-room ;  paid  the  cabman ;  in  short,  made  himself 
guide,  philosopher  and  friend.  There  were  yet  three  minutes 
to  spare. 

"  How  I  wish  you  were  going  down  to-night !  "  said  Abby 
following  him  out  upon  the  deck,  where  he  had  gone  to  hunt 
op  chairs  for  them. 

"  Yes,"  said  Felix,  thinking  drearily  of  the  reading-roow 


A  PERFECT  ADON18.  277 

and  his  stuffy  apartment  at  St.  Lawrence  Hall.      l  Yes,  if  I 
only  were,  I  should  be  very  glad." 

"  You'll  surely  come  to-morrow  night  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
momentary  distrust  darkening  her  eyes  as  she  fixed  them 
keenly  on  him.  Probably  she  had  been  disappointed  before 
by  people  who  had  made  fair  promises. 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  amused  and  fascinated,  returning  he> 
gaze  in  a  way  that  made  her  blush,  and  that  was  quite  un 
justifiable  after  an  acquaintance  of  something  less  thai 
three-quarters  of  an  hour.  When  he  parted  from  her,  1 
am  ashamed  to  say,  he  would  have  liked  to  kiss  her ;  and  he 
held  her  warm,  ungloved  hand  in  his  for  a  quarter  of  a  min- 
ute, while  he  was  making  some  unnecessary  adieux  to  her 
mamma.  She  leaned  over  the  boat  and  talked  to  him  ou 
the  pier ;  and  when  the  boat  moved  off,  looked  so  childishly 
sorrowful,  it  stirred  his  very  heart.  "  It  is  better  than 
being  alone,"  he  said,  as  he  mingled  with  the  crowd  again, 
"  to  have  some  one  glad  when  you  come  and  sorry  when 
you  go,  even  if  it  is  a  child." 

Then  he  reflected  that  he  had  been  a  fool  for  being  flat- 
tered; and  before  he  was  back  at  the  hotel,  was  quite 
ashamed  for  having  committed  himself  to  what  opened  like 
a  most  pronounced  flirtation.  "This  comes  of  living  out 
of  the  world  for  a  little  while,"  he  said,  as  he  remembered 
the  look  of  satisfaction  on  the  mother's  face.  "  I  had  for- 
gotten how  desirable  I  was  :  it  will  be  a  regular  pursuit." 

He  resolved  to  be  on  his  guard ;  he  even  determined  to  give 
up  the  Saguenay.  Mrs.  Glover  he  remembered  ag  a  gay,  good- 
natured  woman  of  society,  harmless  and  rather  headstrong ; 
but  that  was  when  her  only  daughter  was  eating  bread  and 
butter  in  the  nursery.  There  was  no  knowing  what  might  be 
developed  by  the  maternal  instinct  set  a  hunting ;  she  might 
be  a  very  dangerous  person.  He  even  wrote  a  telegram, 
regretting  that  he  could  not  come.  But  that  he  tore  up  the 
next  morning;  he  began  to  feel  very  m  ich  as  if  he  wanted 
company — it  was  dull  work  travel]  irg  alone.  Beside,  he 


278  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

had  intended  to  go  up  the  Saguenay  :  it  was  rather  weak  ta 
be  turned  from  it  by  a  pair  of  women.  Probably  he  could 
protect  himself.  So  he  did  his  duty  by  the  nunneries  and 
churches,  and  went  drearily  around  the  mountain ;  and  be 
fore  dinner  was  quite  weary  of  the  place.  He  could  not 
possibly  have  stayed  longer ;  he  was  not  going  to  Quebec  to 
meet  the  Glovers,  but  to  get  away  from  Montreal.  During 
the  afternoon,  there  was  'nothing  to  do  but  to  shop,  so  he 
laid  in  a  supply  of  storybooks  and  bonbons,  to  ameliorate 
the  dulness  of  the  Saguenay  journey  for  the  youthful  Abby. 
To  avoid  all  danger  of  being  left,  he  went  on  board  the 
steamboat  at  twenty  minutes  before  seven,  settled  his  valise 
in  his  state-room,  and  went  out  upon  the  deck.  "  There  is 
nothing  like  having  plenty  of  time,"  he  said,  a  little  ashamed 
of  himself,  looking  at  his  watch.  But  after  all  he  could 
not  have  done  better ;  this  was  the  best  view  he  had  had  in 
Montreal.  The  evening  sky  was  cloudless  ;  in  front  of  him, 
upon  the  wharf,  was  a  busy  crowd  of  wagoners  and  teams- 
ters shouting  in  Canadian.  French  ;  far  behind  them  rose  the 
heavy  stone- work  of  the  Pier  Richelieu  and  the  pier  Jacques 
Cartier — ships  lay  at  anchor  both  up  and  down  the  stream  ; 
a  canal  boat  lay  snugly  up  beside  the  pier,  bare-armed  and 
bare-headed  women  leaning  over  her  sides  to  enjoy  the  even- 
ing breeze ;  the  men  in  the  rigging  of  the  ships  were  mov- 
ing listlessly  about ;  you  might  have  heard  them  singing  if 
you  had  been  near  enough  to  hear,  and  some  gay  flags  were 
flying.  There  was  great  breadth  and  freedom  in  the  pros- 
pect ;  no  huddling  of  ships  together ;  no  crowding  of  boats 
about  the  pier ;  the  wide  river  was  spanned  in  the  distance 
by  the  Victoria  bridge,  but  that  seemed  far  away.  Beyond 
the  pier  rose  splendid  warehouses  ;  a  wide  place  opened  up 
ihe  hill,  and  upon  the  top  stood  the  Nelson  statue,  in  fine 
relief  against  the  evening  sky.  The  carriages  and  people 
who  moved  along  the  street  beside  the  monument,  looked 
coal-black ;  the  trees  stood  out  like  charcoal  sketches.  The 
sky  Alas  most  pure  and  cloudless;  there  was  no  wind;  tht 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  279 

day  had  been  hot,  but  the  cool  of  evening  *ras  stealing 
over  the  water  and  through  the  air.  Even  with  the 
gesticulating  crowd  of  Frenchmen  at  their  wagons  below,  it 
was  impossible  not  to  feel  cool  and  quiet,  and  as  if  the  ena 
of  the  day  had  come.  There  were  no  evil  smells,  no  crush- 
ing, crowding  and  bustling.  An  ideal  way  of  doing  business 
with  all  that  sky  and  river,  and  fine  masonry  and  open 
space.  Felix  thought  of  some  blocks  of  New  York  water 
front ;  the  contrast  made  this  entree  to  commercial  Montreal 
like  the  frontispiece  in  a  fairy  tale. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  deck,  penetrated  and  soothed 
with  the  beauty  of  the  hour.  Gradually  more  people  came 
on  board,  and  half  a  dozen  came  near  where  he  paced,  and 
fook  their  seats.  One  well-dressed  man  sat  down  and  turned 
his  back  upon  the  Pier  Richelieu  and  the  broad  place,  and 
the  Nelson  monument,  and  the  evening  sky,  and  read  a 
yellow-covered  novel;  another  took  out  his  pocket-diary 
and  spent  fifteen  minutes  in  adjusting  the  record  of  his 
•'ravelling  expenses.  He  thought  them  very  inferior  crea- 
tures— what  we  generally  think  of  people  whom  we  meet 
in  travelling.  At  length  the  time  approached  for  the  mov- 
ing of  the  steamer  down  the  river.  One  bell  had  sounded, 
and  there  was  an  increased  fervor  in  the  oaths  of  the  French- 
men below  among  the  barrels  of  cabbages  and  melons. 
Felix,  in  a  little  maze,  stood  leaning  over  the  rail  and  gaz 
ing  back  upon  the  city,  thinking  of  the  last  restless,  unob- 
servant voyage  he  had  made  down  this  same  broad  river, 
five  years  ago ;  when  he  was  made  aware  of  some  little  ex- 
citement among  his  fellow-passengers.  He  of  the  yellow- 
covered  novel  had  shut  his  book,  and  the  accurate  traveller 
had  put  away  his  memoranda,  and  both  had  started  towards 
the  other  side  of  the  boat.  Another  boat  had  neared  them, 
was  drawing  minute  by  minute  closer  to  their  side. 

"  The  boat  that's  just  come  down  the  rapids,"  said  the 
yellow-covered  man;  "she's  going  to  transfer  some  pa* 
tengera." 


280  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

Then  Felix  filt  but  little  interest,  and  wondered  at  thf 
mriosity  of  his  fellow-travellers ;  still  he  idly  drew  r  ear 
and  stood  among  a  line  of  others,  face  to  face  with  the  voy- 
agers on  the  other  boat,  which  was  still  rocking  slightly  ana 
was  still  not  quite  alongside.  There  were  many  calls  below, 
and  much  throwing  of  ropes  and  clanking  of  chains.  The 
boats  were  separated  by  but  a  few  feet  now ;  nobody  was 
talking — all  were  looking.  The  passengers  on  the  other 
boat  had  a  sun-burned,  flushed,  excited  look,  as  if  they  had 
just  come  down  the  rapids  (which  they  had). 

Felix's  eye  ranged  carelessly  down  the  rows  of  faces  op- 
posite him.  Then  he  gave  a  start  and  gazed  again,  steady- 
ing himself  with  his  hand  on  the  rail.  It  was  so  unex- 
pected, he  explained  to  himself  afterwards.  It  always  gives 
one  a  feeling  of  excitement  to  see  the  face  of  a  friend  or 
even  an  acquaintance  without  any  warning  among  the  strange 
faces  of  a  crowd.  It  was  Dorla  whom  he  looked  at — Dorla, 
not  as  he  remembered  her,  not  as  he  saw  her  last,  but  so 
uniquely  herself  that  he  had  not  had  a  moment  of  misgiv- 
ing. Her  face  was  a  little  sunburnt  and  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  had  a  startled  look,  for  no  doubt  she  had  been 
frightened  coming  down  the  rapids ;  it  had  taken  much  less 
to  frighten  her  in  days  of  old.  She  stood  gazing  before  her 
with  an  absent  sort  of  look,  as  if  she  had  gone  through  so 
much  in  the  matter  of  the  rapids,  she  did  not  think  it  worth 
while  to  interest  herself  in  the  landing  of  the  boat.  For  a 
moment  Felix  saw  no  one  else ;  then  she  moved  slightly, 
and  turned  to  answer  some  one  beside  her  who  spoke,  still 
absently,  though  amiably. 

This  one  who  spoke  to  her  (Felix  looked  at  him  with 
fierce  and  sudden  suspicion)  was  apparently  little  occupied 
tfith  the  objects  that  occupied  the  others,  but  solely  and 
utterly  with  her.  It  is  so  easy  to  see  a  man's  devotion ;  even 
the  porter  who  stood  laden  with  bags  and  shawls  behind 
them,  saw  this  one's.  There  was  something  in  Dorla's  pre- 
occupied manner  that  struck  Felix  wih  the  sudden  convio 


A  PERFECT  ADOXIS.  281 

tion  fchat  this  was  her  husband,  and  that  she  had  married 
Again  without  affection.  She  certainly  looked  well;  she 
certainly  did  not  look  unhappy.  This  was  the  end ;  Felix 
could  have  wished  the  last  few  days  undone,  and  that  he  had 
not  wasted  a  dreaming  thought  upon  her. 

In  a  moment  more,  the  boats  were  securely  fastened,  the 
plank  thrown  across,  and  the  two  whom  he  was  gazing  or. 
as  in  an  unwilling  spell,  moved  forward ;  and  he  started  and 
turned  away  and  gazed  upon  the  city,  and  tried  to  blot  out 
from  his  memory  that  sight  of  Dorla,  leading  on  the  stran 
ger's  arm.  But  though  the 

"  — evening  fair  as  ever 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river," 

its  peaceful  charm  was  at  an  end  for  him.  What  had  Dorla, 
living  or  dead,  to  do  with  it  ?  Nothing,  logically ;  but  here 
it  was  spoiled  by  her  shadow  falling  on  it,  as  she  had  spoiled 
many  a  morning  and  many  an  evening  for  him  "before.  Why 
had  fate  not  been  content  to  let  him  rest  ? 

He  laughed  a  little  bitter  laugh  to  himself  as  he  turned 
away ;  at  least,  he  would  not  disturb  her  serenity  for  the 
second  time,  if  he  had  the  power.  It  would  be  too  bad  to 
trouble  the  peace,  too,  of  this  respectable  gentleman;  he 
would  have  a  care.  He  might  be  more  sensitive  than  the 
lamented  George.  He  would  try  to  avoid  them.  He  hoped 
.  hey  had  not  set  their  hearts  upon  the  Saguenay !  No 
doubt  if  Dorla  found  there  was  any  such  complication  proba- 
ble, she  would  go  into  a  fainting  fit,  like  one  of  those  she 
had  done  so  handsomely  in  that  remote  period  prior  to  her 
widowhood,  and  would  have  to  keep  her  state-room,  or  be 
taken  off  the  boat.  Surely,  they  need  not  get  into  high 
tragedy  at  their  time  of  life.  It  was  very  base  and  low  in 
Felix  to  have  thoughts  like  these,  but  indeed  he  was  so 
wigry  and  so  stung  by  a  man's  silly  pride  and  dread  of  usur- 
pation, that  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  thought  or  what  he 
'ooked.  He  walked  rapidly  up  and  down  the  deck,  after  th« 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

steamer  blew  her  whistle  and  swung  off  into  the  stream ;  hi* 
coat  was  buti  oned  up,  and  his  hands  plunged  into  his  pock- 
ets ;  his  face  was  hard,  and  his  step  almost  vindictive  ;  he 
'  looked  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left.  A  little 
child  flitted  acrobs  the  deck,  followed  languidly  by  a  white- 
capped  French  nurse.  Her  broad  Leghorn  hat  flapped  over 
her  eyes  at  an  inopportune  moment ;  she  was  prostrate  .'it 
Felix's  feet,  and  his  heavy  unobservant  tread  came  dowii 
upon  her  tiny,  outstretched  hand.  She  gave  a  shrill  cry  of 
pain  and  fear.  Felix,  suddenly  and  unpleasantly  recalled  to 
the  present,  stooped  over  her  and  picked  her  up.  It  put 
him  in  an  agony  to  think  that  he  had  hurt  her,  but  at  the 
same  time  he  was  angry  and  unreasonable. 

"  You  should  take  better  care,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  see 
your  finger." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  passionate  cry,  and  a  violent 
struggle  to  get  out  of  his  arms. 

"  Ha !  "  he  said,  holding  her  tight, ft  you  want  me  to  put 
you  down  on  the  deck  again,  for  the  next  person  to  walk 
over,  do  you  ?  " 

Then  the  slim  little  creature  writhec  herself  almost  out  of 
his  arms,  but  he  was  angry  and  cruel,  and  meant  not  to  put 
her  down  till  he  was  ready.  She  used  her  hands  and  her 
feet  too,  and  kicked  him  with  all  her  tiny  strength. 

"  You  are  a  little  vixen,"  he  said,  standing  her  down  upon 
the  seat  that  encircled  the  deck,  but  still  holding  her  by  one 
arm.  *'  Now  show  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  see  if  you  are 
hurt." 

For  all  answer,  she  thrust  her  hand  out  of  sight  in  her 
dress,  and  twisted  her  face  away  from  him.  She  was  white 
with  pain  and  anger,  and  she  shook  all  over,  but  she  did  not 
cry.  By  this  time  the  pensive  French  nurse  came  up  to 
where  he  stood,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  if  in  sympa- 
:hy  with  him,  and  as  if  the  child  were  hopeless. 

"  It  will  be  better  for  Monsieur  to  go  away,"  she  said , 
uid  Monsieur  went  away,  saying  as  he  went, 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  283 

u  I  see  I  cannot  do  her  any  good.  I  am  very  iortj  if  I 
hurt  her." 

He  watched  the  nurse  go  away  with  her.  The  wind  ble* 
her  hat  off,  and  he  saw  her  face.  She  was  not  a  pretty 
child ;  she  was  very  fair,  with  blonde  hair,  soft  and  thin 
rnd  fine,  that  stood  out  in  a  little  frizz  like  a  glory  round 
der  head.  Her  nose  was  retrousse,  her  eyes  were  light  and 
passionate.  She  warf  very  small,  she  had  felfc  like  a  doll  to 
Felix  when  he  lifted  he*".  She  was  dressed  \ery  daintily  in 
white,  with  a  great  browi*  s£sh  around  her  waist,  which  the 
nurse  straightened,  instead  of  paying  any  attention  to  the 
hurt  little  hand.  They  disappeared  into  the  saloon,  Felix's 
glance  following  them  with  a  wish  that  that  might  be  the 
last  that  he  might  see  of  them. 

He  had  not  even  the  satisfaction  of  marching  up  and  down 
like  a  caged  lion  any  more  ;  this  encounter  had  spoiled  even 
that  for  him.  He  was  afraid  of  walking  over  another  child  ; 
he  felt  thoroughly  ill-tempered.  "  Maybe  I  could  find  rest  in 
the  baggage-room,"  he  said  to  himself,  in  wrath,  as  he  begged 
a  lady's  pardon  for  moving  a  chair  that  she  had  appropriated 
in  her  mind  to  some  companion  who  had  not  yet  appeared. 
He  endured  this  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  made  a  surly 
resolution,  to  get  his  tea,  and  bolt  himself  into  his  state-room 
afterward,  to  escape  the  persecutions  and  temptations  of  the 
world.  This  monastic  fury  was  not  abated  when  he  found 
himself  at  the  door  of  the  saloon,  face  to  face  with  the 
stranger  wh'om  he  had  seen  with  Dorla.  This  time  he  had  a 
different  companion,  an  elderly  woman  in  deep  widow's 
weeds.  She  was  leaning  heavily  on  his  arm,  and  he  was  also 
carrying  several  shawls.  Not  having  that  lively  interest  in 
Felix  that  Felix  had  in  him,  he  said  :  "  I  beg  your  pardon," 
with  ;>ut  looking  at  him  particularly,  which  begging  of  par- 
don was  an  invitation  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  let  him 
pass  with  his  heavy  freight. 

Felix  was  a  gentleman,  but  it  took  all  Df  Ms  traditions 
wid  instincts  to  prevent  him  from  being  very  rude  He 


884  A  PERFECT  ADOM8. 

stood  aside ;  as  the  lady  passed  him,  she  glanced  into  his 
face ;  and  then  glanced  again,  and  made  a  half  movement  tc 
put  out  her  hand.  Felix  saw  at  once  that  it  was  some  one 
that  he  knew,  but  who,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  say. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  appear  not  to  see ;  he  was  just  in 
the  mood  to  resent  bitterly  the  common  bondage  of  society. 
But  he  was  too  good  a  gentleman  to  follow  out  this  impulse  ; 
he  could  not  prevent  himself  from  giving  a  faint  and  distant 
salutation.  But  elderly  women  are  persistent. 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  be  mistaken,"  she  said,  stopping  in 
the  doorway.  "  It  is  Mr.  Yarian." 

As  soon  as  she  spoke,  Felix  knew  that  it  was  Mrs.  Bishop. 
A  host  of  recollections  came  over  him,  of  his  mother,  and  of 
their  long  kind  feeling. 

He  put  out  his  hand  ;  "  For  the  moment,  I  was  not  sure. 
I  am  so  glad  you  spoke." 

Some  one  came  pushing  through  the  door,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  move  on '•,  Felix  followed  her.  She  sat  down,  as 
if  tired,  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  motioned  Felix  to  a  se#t 
beside  her. 

"  You  have  been  living  in  California  ?  I  hear  of  you 
sometimes  through  Harriet.  Harriet  is  not  with  you,  my 
dear,  is  she  ?  " 

It  was  so  long  since  any  one,  young  or  old,  had  said  "  mj 
dear  "  to  him,  that  his  heart  relaxed. 

"  No,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I  have  not  seen  Harriet  since  I 
eame  back.  I  am  on  my  way  to  her." 

"  Aunt  Hester,"  said  the  unnoticed  and  patient  bearer  of 
shawls,  "  I  will  leave  you  here  a  moment  and  see  if  they  are 
read}  to  come  out." 

"  Yes,  and  Henry,"  returned  Mrs.  Bishop,  "  tell  ner  to 
come  at  once ;  and  see  if  she  cannot  be  persuaded  to  leave 
Missy,  and  come  down  to  tea." 

This  observation  filled  Felix  with  chagrin,  and  broke  up 
all  his  feelings  of  satisfaction  in  peeing  Mrs.  Bishop.  She 
also  seemed  recalled  to  something  painful,  and  looked  fur- 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  285 

fcively  at  him.  It  was  evident  that  in  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing him,  she  had  forgotten  the  entanglements  of  that  last 
Milford  summer;  for  some  reason  she  seemed  much  per- 
plexed and  troubled.  Felix's  pride  instantly  took  alarm. 

"  She  is  trying  to  prepare  a  speech  to  soften  the  blow  to 
me,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  disdain.  "  I  shall  be  the  ob 
ject  of  much  female  pity.  It  is  supposed,  no  doubt,  I  have 
been  dragging  a  miserable  existence  for  the  last  five  years, 
and  have  come  pitifully  back  to  be  stabbed  by  the  cruel 
news,  before  my  foot  is  absolutely  on  my  native  heath." 

Following  the  sarcasm  out,  he  prepared  himself  to  meet 
Dorla  with  suavity ;  he  allowed  Mrs.  Bishop  no  moment  to 
preface  the  meeting.  He  talked  so  glibly  on  subjects  of  in- 
difference that  the  poor  lady  was  bewildered  and  followed 
humbly,  not  being  so  agile  of  mind  as  formerly.  In  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  there  was  a  sort  of  pause  ;  Felix  him- 
self was  a  little  remiss,  he  had  been  watching  the  door  of  the 
saloon  so  intently  that  he  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

f(  I  don't  know  why  Henry  doesn't  come,"  Mrs.  Bishop 
began,  uneasily.  "  Perhaps — " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  feeling  the  evening  air,"  said  Felix, 
with  assiduity.  "  Shall  I  put  this  shawl  over  you  ?  One 
feels  the  chill  so  soon  after  the  sun  goes  down,  and  there  is 
quite  a  breeze  to-night." 

"  Yes,  quite,"  returned  Mrs.  Bishop,  reminded  of  her 
elderly  infirmities.  "I  don't  altogether  fancy  these  niglit 
boats — but  Henry  and  Dorla  both  assured  me  I  should  be 
quite  comfortable  By  the  way,  Mr.  Yarian,  did  you 
know—" 

But  what  it  was,  did  not  transpire ;  at  that  moment,  the 
taro  people  for  whom  he  had  been  watching,  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  "  Henry  "  preceding  and  clearing  the  way  for  her 
*s  for  his  sovereign,  and  standing  aside  and  offering  her  his 
hand  as  she  stepped  across  the  sill  of  the  door.  The  evening 
was  still  clear,  though  the  sun  had  gone  down  nearly  ar- 
bour. The  river  looked  dark  and  broad,  and  the  steamei 


A  PERFECT  ADOfflB. 

moved  steadily  onward  with  little  noise  or  movement, 
Dorla  glanced  around  for  Mrs.  Bishop,  and  catching  sight  of 
her  oame  forward  with  a  bright,  affectionate  face. 

"  You  are  tired  of  waiting  for  me,"  she  said,  t(  but  Missy 
would  not  let  me  off  a  moment  sooner." 

Felix  had  arisen  when  he  saw  them  coming,  and,  standing 
behind  Mrs.  Bishop's  chair}  had  appeared  to  Dorla  as  any 
of  the  passengers,  of  whom  there  were  a  number  on  the  deck. 

"  No,  I  am  not  tired  of  waiting,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  with 
painfully  evident  constraint.  "  I  have  found  an  old  friend 
on  board.  It  will  be  quite  a  surprise  to  you,  Dorla.  Here 
is  Mr.  Varian." 

It  was  quite  a  surprise  to  her.  She  looked  up  suddenly 
towards  him,  as  Mrs.  Bishop  turned  to  indicate  him,  and 
the  bright,  easy  look  died  out  of  her  face ;  there  came  an 
expression  with  which  Felix  was  familiar.  Then  all  feeling, 
good  or  bad,  went  under  swift  control,  and  she  put  out  her 
hand  unaffectedly  to  him,  and  said  some  commonplace,  but 
sufficiently  cordial,  words  of  greeting. 

Felix,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  been  getting  up  his 
part  for  half  an  hour,  did  much  less  well  than  she.  He  only 
succeeded  in  being  stiff,  and  then  unnaturally  easy,  if  the  thing 
is  possible.  There  was,  after  the  first  few  moments,  something 
subtly  detestable  in  his  manner.  Dorla  alone  felt  it,  in 
wonder  and  distress.  She  was  quite  pale,  and  almost  silent. 
The  two  gentlemen  and  Mrs.  Bishop  kept  up  the  few  mo- 
ments' desultory  talk,  before  going  (Jown  to  tea  was  can- 
vassed. Dorla  was  appealed  to ;  Felix  had  arisen. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful  out  here  now,"  said  she,  keeping  her 
seat. 

"  Tnen  let  us  wait  a  little  longer,"  said  Henry,  with 
fervent  acquiescence. 

"  Bat  there  will  be  nothing  left,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  plain* 
lively.  "  Those  hungry  creatures  rushing  down  the  stairs 
«rill  eat  up  everything." 

**  I  am  afraid,  from  what  I  hear,  Mrs.  Bishop,"  said  Fe» 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  287 


lix,  "  lhat  you  tfill  wish  they  had  eaten  everything  up,  when 
jrou  go  down." 

"  Now,  Henry  assured  me  I  should  have  a  very  decent 
meal.  Henry,  what  do  you  say  to  this  ?  " 

While  Henry  was  reassuring  his  aunt  on  this  vital 
point,  Felix  excused  himself,  and  went  down  to  the  heated 
and  noisy  dining-room.  He  spent  but  a  few  moments  in  it, 
and  then  went  away  to  smoke.  For  half  an  hour  he  smoked, 
and  then  went  forward,  meaning  to  go  directly  to  his  state- 
room. He  did  not  feel  equal  to  the  renewal  of  this  inter- 
course, and  hoped,  with  a  bitter  vehemence,  that  he  might 
escape,  ever  in  this  life,  Another  meeting  with  one  who 
brought  so  many  unhappy  memories  with  her.  A  crowd  of 
people  were  about  his  state-room  door,  inspecting  ((  views  " 
and  Indian  curiosities  so-called.  He  could  not  enter  it 
without  asking  persons  to  move,  and  quite  possibly  those  he 
meant  to  avoid  might  be  among  the  group.  So,  having  left 
them  on  the  forward  deck,  he  thought  himself  safe  in  going 
to  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  walking  for  a  few  moments,  till 
he  saw  the  way  clear  to  his  room-door. 

The  moon  had  come  out  in  full  splendor,  and  a  long  track 
of  light  lay  behind  them  on  the  water.  The  sky  was  still 
faintly  yellow  about  the  clear  horizon,  and  darkly  blue 
above,  and  the  lights  along  the  shore  seemed  distant.  The 
air,  too,  was  fresh  and  delicious  to  one  coming  from  within. 
Felix  walked  to  the  stern  of  the  boat  with  a  freer  feeling. 
It  seemed  so  dark,  coming  out  of  the  lighted  saloon.  All 
the  passengers  walking  about  or  sitting  in  groups,  were  like 
maskers.  He  could  have  told  no  one's  face.  He  stood  still 
for  a  moment,  at  the  stern,  looking  steadfastly  back  upon 
the  glittering  waters.  A  soft  voice  said,  exactly  at  his 
elbow— 

"I  had  no  idea  the  country  was  so  level  here,  had 
you?" 

It  was  Dorla's  voice,  and  it  might  have  been  said  to  him, 
w  to  her  Henry  who  stood  close  beside  her.  Felix  ground 


288  A  PERFECT  ADONTS 

his  teeth.  This  was  fate !  He  had  walked  directly  into  th« 
very  group  he  had  been  trying  to  avoid.  He  did  not  care 
what  they  thought,  he  only  wanted  to  spare  himself  the 
sting  of  feeling  that  the  sight  occasioned.  They  talked  to- 
gether (as  was  unavoidable,)  for  a  few  moments,  about  the 
river,  and  then,  as  he  was  planning  to  get  away,  Mrs. 
Bishop  arose  and  proposed  to  Dorla  to  go  in.  Mrs.  Bishop 
had  been  so  thrown  back  by  Felix's  changed  manner,  and 
by  other  reasons  possibly,  that  she  had  not  much  pleasure 
in  his  sosiety,  it  was  evident. 

<f  Is  it  necessary  quite  so  soon  ?  "  said  Dorla.  "  It  is  so 
beautiful  here  in  the  moonlight,  and  Missy  will  surely  wake 
if  I  go  in  just  yet." 

"We  can  sit  in  the  saloon,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop.  "I  am 
sure  it  is  too  chilly  here." 

"  In  a  little  while  I  will  come  in,"  returned  Dorla,  show- 
ing she  had  developed  a  little  more  self-assertion  in  these 
past  five  years. 

"  Well,  Henry,  if  you  will  give  me  your  arm,  said  Mrs. 
Bishop,  with  resignation ;  and  the  two  moved  away. 

There  was  only  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then  Dorla  said, 
"  Tell  me  about  Harriet.  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen 
her." 

The  tone,  which  was  gentleness  and  courtesy  itself,  had 
something  more  about  it  than  courtesy  and  gentleness.  It 
said,  "  Forgive  me,  if  you  can,  for  whatever  I  have  done 
against  you ;  and  take  my  forgiveness  for  whatever  I  have 
suffered  at  your  hands.  Let  us  be  kind  friends,  since  we 
can  be  nothing  more,  and  do  not  wound  or  goad  me  by  this 
strange  demeanor." 

Felix  was  not  insensible  to  it,  but  it  only  added  to  his 
bitterness.  He  perversely  wrought  it  into  pity,  and  he 
would  not  be  pitied.  "  See  how  kindly  she  is  soothing  me !  n 
he  said  to  himself,  with  venom.  "  She  takes  this  moment 
of  the  absence  of  her  Henry  to  reconcile  me  to  existence. 
She  would  do  all  she  could  in  conscience  to  save  me  from 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  289 

despair,  1  am  not  sure  but  she  would  flirt  a  little  with  me, 
the  tender,  pious  creature,  if  there  were  no  other  way." 

The  result  of  this  came  out  in  his  tones,  though  of  course 
not  in  his  words. 

**  Harriet  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  brotherly  carelessness.  "  1 
uave  not  seen  her  yet.  I  have  just  come  back  from  Califor- 
nia, where  I  have  been  living  for  the  past  three  years.  But 
perhaps  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Dorla,  faintly. 

"  She  is  now  at  Lake  Memphremagog,"  continued  Felix, 
"  and  I  am  going  to  join  her  there  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days.  You  have  not  seen  her  lately  ?  " 

"  No  !  we  seem  to  have  drifted  apart.  I  suppose  I  am 
getting  tiresome,  with  Missy  and  all  my  caree,  and  you  know 
Harriet  likes  something  fresh.  And  she  is  getting,  too,  a 
little  strong-minded.  I  suppose  you  know  about  it." 

"  Strong-minded  ?  No !  "  said  Felix,  with  vexation. 
"  She  has  taken  good  care  not  to  let  me  see  anything  of  it  in 
her  letters.  Who  are  the  people  that  she  has  about  her 
now  ?  " 

"  O,  I  could  hardly  tell  you.  A  little  Bohemian  and  ar- 
tistic flavor,  but  rather  more  pronounced  than  we  have  been 
quite  used  to.  Perfectly  respectable,  though,  and  I  hope  you 
will  not  mind  the  difference  in  certain  little  things.  That 
is,  they  seem  very  little ;  sometimes  I  think  they  have  more 
meaning  than  we  are  accustomed  to  believe,  and  have  their 
effect  to  pull  down  what  ought  to  be  kept  up." 

"  Women,"  said  Felix,  with  a  scornful  shrug,  "  are  quite 
beyond  my  comprehension.  Beginning  with  my  sister  Har- 
riet." 

*•  Yes?  "  said  Dorla,  this  time  very  coldly. 

At  this  moment  the  faithful  Henry  reappeared  upon  the 
Bcene. 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  he  said,  humbly,  "  I  come  from  my 
Mint,  who  begs  you  will  not  expose  yourself  to  the  night  air 
13 


290  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

any  longer.  Some  lady  has  been  telling  her  the  nights  upon 
the  river  here  are  very  dangerously  cold." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  right,"  said  Dorla,  rising  slowly.  Ano 
with  a  cool  good-night  to  Felix,  moved  away. 

Felix,  who  had  arisen  in  a  speechless  sort  of  maze,  when 
she  went  away,  stood  gazing  after  her,  witli  a  bewildered 
feeling  that  the  world  had  come  down,  and  would  have  to  be 
built  up  again  from  the  foundation.  "  Mrs.  Rothermel !  " 
Then  he  was  only  a  suitor,  and  a  coldly-treated  one  at  that. 
The  sensation  of  relief  was  something  startling.  He  turned, 
and  drew  a  long  breath,  as  he  gazed  down  the  moon-paved 
river.  How  he  had  misjudged  her!  How  could  he  atone 
for  the  insulting  coldness  of  his  manner  ? 

"  If  they  should  meet  again,"  he  assured  himself,  it  would 
be  necessary  to  show  her  that  he  felt  more  kindly,  that  he 
had  overlooked  the  past.  "  Not  that  it  was  likely  that  they 
would  ever  be  thrown  together  much  more,"  he  said,  "  though 
he  should  make  the  effort  to  have  one  interview  at  least. 
But  it  was  pleasanter  to  be  at  peace  with  all ;  life  was  too 
Bhort  for  feuds  of  any  kind."  It  made  very  little  difference 
to  him,  of  course,  whether  she  was  married  to  this  man 
or  not ;  but  it  was  pleasanter  to  find  she  had  not  thrown 
herself  away.  A  person  in  whom  you  have  once  felt  an  in- 
terest, etc.  An  interest,  indeed.  He  did  not  deserve  to 
know  she  was  not  married.  His  monastic  fury  was  ex- 
pended ;  he  forgot  all  about  going  to  his  state-room.  He 
talked  up  and  down  the  deck,  till  it  was  long  past  mid- 
night, and  till  his  fellow-voyagers  were  all  asleep  or  silent. 

The  next  morning,  about  half-past  six  o'clock,  he  went  again 
upon  the  deck.  Many  people  were  already  there,  having  an 
enthusiastic  desire  to  see  the  first  of  the  ancient  town.  The 
morning  was  perfect,  the  air  a  great  deal  colder  than  was  at 
all  comfortable,  and  the  wind  quite  riotous.  Bundled  up  in 
shawls  and  shielded  by  an  angle  of  the  cabin,  sat  Mrs. 
Bishop.  Felix  made  his  way  to  her,  looking  around  for 
Dorla,  but  she  was  not  there.  Mrs.  Bishop  was  not  pre« 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  291 

pared  for  his  unexplained  suavity,  but  she  was  very  soon 
melted  by  it,  being  a  soft-hearted  old  woman,  easily  -reached 
by  any  one  associated  with  the  dear  and  well-remembered 
past.  In  a  few  moments  they  were  talking  of  the  old  days 
and  the  many  changes.  Her  voice  failed  when  it  came  to 
that;  she  said  a  few  words,  huskily,  about  his  mother. 
And  Felix  had.  to  supply  his  mind  with  faint  recollections 
of  having  heard  of  Mr.  Bishop's  death,  some  two  or  three 
years  ago.  How  heartless  it  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it ! 
Now  that  he  was  with  her,  he  felt  as  if  he  ought  to  have 
been  more  impressed  with  it,  when  he  heard  it.  But  a 
paragraph  in  a  rambling  letter,  about  people  three  thousand 
miles  away,  whom  one  never  expects  to  see  again,  cannot 
affect  one  very  vitally. 

"  But  there  is  much  left  to  make  life  bearable,"  said  his 
companion  simply.  "  My  friends  are  very  kind." 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel  is  often  with  you  ?  "  said  Felix. 

"  Yes,  we  have  spent  our  summers  together  for  the  past 
two  years ;  and  she  comes  to  see  me  almost  daily  in  the  city. 
I  do  not  know  what  I  should  have  done  without  her.  She 
is  everything  to  me.  And  now  that  Henry  lives  with  me,  I 
have  no  right  to  call  myself  a  lonely  woman.  Many  are 
worse  off  than  I.  But  it  is  a  drear  change." 

Felix  remembered  the  contented  and  united  pair,  and  in- 
deed he  did  feel  sorry  for  her.  But  while  he  looked  for 
words  to  say  so,  Dorla  came  upon  the  deck  and  glanced 
around  for  her.  By  the  hand  she  led  the  little  girl,  with 
whom  he  had  had  so  unfortunate  an  encounter  on  the  deck, 
the  night  before.  She  came  up  to  them  with  a  warm  smile 
for  her  old 'friend,  and  a  cold  one  for  her  old  lover.  The 
child  snatched  herself  away  from  the  group  when  she  saw 
Felix.  Dorla,  not  understanding,  tried  to  make  her  speak  to 
him. 

"  Your  daughter  and  I  came  in  collision  yesterday,"  he 
said.  "  I  hope  she  has  inherited  her  mother's  forgiving  dis- 
position.* 


292  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Gas  her  mother  that  sort  of  disposition,"  she  said,  as  if 
she  were  not  thinking.  All  Felix's  overtures  were  unac- 
cepted. Missy  held  herself  behind  her  mother,  and  refused 
to  speak  to  him.  At  last  her  mother  had  to  interfere  ;  she 
stooped  down  and  whispered  something  which  had  not  much 
effect. 

*' Dear  Missy,"  she  said  again  in  a  low  voice,  "give  your 
hand  to  Mr.  Varian." 

And  Missy  gave  it — the  coldest,  smallest  hand,  and  for  the 
shortest  second.  And  such  a  look  out  of  her  light  eyes ! 

"  It  shall  never  happen  again,  Missy ;  and  I  hope  we  shall 
be  friends." 

Missy  did  not  echo  the  hope,  and  her  mother  took  her 
on  her  lap  to  recompense  her  for  having  submitted  to  give 
her  hand  to  Mr.  Varian  for  the  tenth  part  of  a  second. 
Rather  a  bad  beginning !  Felix  brought  some  more  chairs, 
and  they  made  themselves  comfortable  in  the  shelter  of  the 
cabin. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful ! "  said  Dorla.  "  After  all,  the  out 
line  is  just  like  the  pictures  in  the  geography ;  I  should  have 
known  it  for  Quebec." 

"  Such  striking  features  could  not  well  be  lost,  even  in  a 
wood  engraving." 

"  See!  Missy,"  said  her  mother,  "it  is  time  you  took  an 
interest.  This  is  the  old  city  that  I  told  you  of,  that  has 
a  wall  around  it,  and  great  iron  gates." 

But  Missy  oast  dark  looks  at  Felix,  and  refused  to  take 
an  interest. 

"  Missy,"  said  Felix,  with  humble  perseverance,  "  there, 
where  you  see  that  flag,  is  where  they  fought  a  great  battle 
Dnce,  and  where  General  Wolfe  was  killed." 

"I  am  afraid  she  doesn't  know  much  about  General 
Wolfe,"  said  Dorla,  putting  her  arms  around  her,  "being 
only  six  years  old." 

"  I  never  had  anything  to  do  with  children,  and  I  do  not 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  293 

know  how  much  they  ought  to  know,"  returned  Felix. 
"But  I  suppose  six  is  rather  a  tender  age  for  history." 

"  Bather,"  said  Dorla,  holding  Missy  very  tight  in  hei 
arms,  and  wrapping  a  shawl  about  her  feet.  And  Felix  felt 
himself  snubbed  by  mother  and  by  daughter. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  "  I'm  not  too  young  for  his- 
tory; you  may  tell  me,  if  you  think  it  worth  your  while." 

So  Felix  solaced  himself  with  telling  all  he  could  remem- 
ber of  the  points  of  interest  in  sight  from  the  river,  to  which 
Dorla,  who  was  privately  taking  Missy's  part,  listened,  but 
did  not  make  a  comment.  Presently  Henry,  who  was  now 
formally  presented  as  Mr.  Stanfield,  came  up  to  them,  and! 
Missy's  face  brightened.  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Missy 
slipped  down  from  her  mother's  lap.  She  made  him  take 
her  out  to  the  very  end  of  the  deck,  and  even' lift  her  up  to 
look  over  the  railing,  and  she  showed  no  intention  of  return- 
ing to  the  group  that  she  had  left.  Presently  Dorla  got  up 
and  walked  over  to  where  they  stood,  and  then  they  walked 
up  and  down  the  deck,  Dorla  and  Mr.  Stanfield,  the  latter 
carrying  Missy  in  his  arms,  with  the  shawl  wrapped  close 
about  her  feet.  Felix,  left  in  the  enlivening  society  of  Mrs. 
Bishop,  thought  that  this  desertion  might  be  owing  to 
motherly  misgivings  about  the  thickness  of  Missy's  stockings, 
or  it  might  be  owing  to  a  desire  to  repay  him  for  his  inso- 
lent coldness  of  the  night  before.  Or,  bitter  reflection,  it 
might  be  an  inclination  for  the  society  of  that  middle-sized, 
middle-brained,  black-bearded,  unoffending  young  man.  No, 
perish  the  thoight!  A  want  of  taste  was  not  among  the 
shortcomings  of  Mrs.  Kothermel.  It  would  have  been  a 
pleasure  to  watch  her,  as  she  moved  slowly  up  and  down  the 
deck,  the  wind  sweeping  her  clothes  about  her  limbs,  and 
her  hair  into  her  eyes,  if  he  had  been  a  little  more  certain 
of  why  she  went  away.  She  was  not  talking  much,  but  was 
ooking  wistfully,  and  with  a  look  that  was  not  all  pleasure, 
at  the  glittering  and  beautiful  old  city  on  its  steep,  towards 
which  they  were  drawing  sa  fast.  The  air  was  so  clear,  th« 


294  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

heights  and  slopes  were  so  defined,  the  blue  was  so  blue,  the 
green  so  vivid,  the  sunshine  such  "  a  glorious  birth ; "  Felix 
wondered  that  her  faje  was  not  all  radiant,  as  it  would  have 
been  in  the  years  that  she  had  left  behind. 

"  Why  will  Henry  carry  that  great  girl  in  his  arms  ?  "  so- 
liloquized Mrs.  Bishop,  long  after  Felix  had  ceased  talking. 
"It  really  doesn't  look  well,  even  if  it  doesn't  hurt  his 
back." 

The  "  great  girl "  looked  such  a  pitiful  mite,  that  Felix  felt 
she  might  be  without  uneasiness  on  the  subject  of  her  neph- 
ew's back.  The  appearance  of  the  thing  was  another  matter  ; 
they  certainly  did  look  very  papa-and-mamma-ly,  walking 
up  and  down  beside  each  other,  and  with  Missy's  little  face, 
blue-pinched  with  the  morning  air,  lying  confidingly  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  She  seems  a  delicate  child,"  said  Felix,  generally.  He 
would  have  liked  to  say,  "  and  a  most  disagreeable  one ; ' 
but  that  would  have  been  unwise. 

"  Why  yes,  but  Borla  exaggerates  all  that,  and  makes  her- 
self wretched  with  but  very  little  reason.  I  can't  see  that 
she  is  very  different  from  other  children,  I  mean  as  far  as 
her  health  goes.  She  is  different  in  her  mind,  for  she  is  very 
clever,  and  knows  that  her  mother  hasn't  any  other  thought 
in  life,  and  that  she  can  do  exactly  as  she  pleases." 

l(  Not  a  very  profitable  idea  to  get  implanted  in  a  brain  ol 
six,"  said  Felix  with  a  superior  air. 

Then  Mrs.  Bishop  began  to  defend  Dorla,  and  make  ex- 
cuses for  Missy,  till  Felix  felt  he  was  considered  an  enemy 
by  all.  He  was  very  glad  when  they  made  the  wharf,  and 
he  went  away  to  his  state-room  for  his  valise.  When  ihe 
rush  of  peoplfc  on  and  people  off  the  boat  was  a  little  over, 
he  went  back  to  the  forward  deck,  where  he  had  left  the  party. 
Standing  somewhat  back,  behind  a  group  of  people,  he  was  a 
little  startled,  and  recalled  to  the  immediate  past,  to  wit,  the 
day  before  yesterday — a  period  and  an  event  which  seemed 
to  have  fadod  from  his  mind.  Abbv  Glover,  with  cheek* 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  295 

*glow  and  eyes  dancing,  darted  past  him.  He  had  almost 
Bpoken  to  her,  but  she  had  not  seen  him  She  ran  up  to 
Dorla  and  kissed  her,  hugged  Missy,  and  shook  Mr.  Stan- 
field's  disengaged  hand,  and  then  ran  over  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Bishop. 

"  Why,  Abby,"  said  the  latter,  "  you're  surely  not  alone. 
Where  is  Mrs.  Glover  ?  " 

"  Fast  asleep  at  the  Hotel  St.  Louis,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
never  was  out  so  early  in  my  life  before.  I  have  been  awake 
since  five.  I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't  come." 

But  all  the  time,  her  eyes  roved  about  the  deck,  and  she 
was  manifestly  unsatisfied. 

"  Where  are  all  the  people  ?  "  she  said.     "  Are  these  all  ?  " 

"Some  sleepy  ones  may  be  still  in  their  state-rooms,"  said 
Dorla,  "  or  some  hungry  ones  down  in  that  ecstatic  dining- 
room.  For  whom  are  you  looking  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  Abby  coloring,  and  with  an  anxious  shade 
creeping  over  her  bright  morning  face,  (( why,  a  gentleman 
mamma  met  in  Montreal — an  old  friend — (who  is  going  to 
join  us,  you  know,  to  go  up  the  Saguenay.)  He  said  he 
should  come  down  this  morning." 

lt  I  am  afraid  that  he  has  played  you  false,"  said  Dorla, 
tying  a  scarf  over  Missy's  Leghorn  hat. 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  has,"  said  Abby  stoutly,  but  her  color 
.raded. 

"  Come  then,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop  taking  Henry's  arm,  for 
Missy  was  now  consigned  to  her  nurse  Marie ;  "  we  can't 
wait  for  him.  Maybe  he'll  bethink  himself  and  come  down 
by  rail." 

But  at  this  moment,  Felix's  wall  of  defence,  to  wit,  two 
French  priests  with  broad  hats,  moved  away  and  left  him 
exposed.  Abby  caught  sight  of  him  and  gave  a  little  cry ; 
she  made  a  step  forward,  and  then  stopped  and  reddened 
violently.  Violently,  but  not  unbecomingly.  She  was  so 
pretty,  she  was  so  na'ive,  Felix  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment, 
with  a  reflection  of  her  pleasure  no  doubt  on  his  face. 


296  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  You  did  come,"  she  said,  as  he  took  her  hand. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  answered.  "What  did  yo\4  think 
that  I  was  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  seems  like  forever  since  Montreal,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  am  tired  to  death  of  Quebec,  and  am  so  glad  to  see 
somebody  that  I  know.  These  are  some  of  our  party,"  she 
added,  remembering  them.  And  turning  to  Dorla,  who  stood 
nearest,  she  said  with  great  ease  for  a  girl  of  seventeen,  who 
had  been  so  lately  blushing,  "  Mrs.  Rotherme1 ,  my  friend 
Mr.  Varian." 

There  was  a  little  laugh,  principally  from  Mrs.  Bishop, 
for  Dorla  looked  somewhat  cold  and  haughty,  though  she 
had  laughed  a  little  too. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Varian  and  I  have  known  each  other 
a  good  while." 

"Well,"  said  Abby  a  little  sharply,  for  no  one  fancies  be- 
ing laughed  at,  "  shall  I  present  him  to  Mrs.  Bishop  ?  Or 
has  everybody  known  him  a  good  while  ?  " 

"  Everybody  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  "  so  you'll  be 
saved  the  trouble." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  minded  the  trouble,"  returned  Abby, 
not  in  the  best  humor.  "  But  not  to  waste  time  over  it,  1 
think  we'd  better  go,  for  I  see  two  omnibuses  are  filled  al- 
ready, and  you  never  will  be  able  to  get  the  rooms  you  want. 
Mamma  has  spoken  for  them.  But  speaking  doesn't  seem 
to  do  much  good ;  there  is  such  a  hurly-burly.  We've  got 
a  wretched  little  room." 

Then  Mrs.  Bishop  began  to  grow  despondent,  as  was  her 
wont,  when  any  difficulty  was  suggested.  She  leaned  heav- 
ily on  Henry's  arm,  and  told  him  they  should  be  too  late. 
Henry  was  very  patient,  but  his  thoughts  were  divided  be- 
tween getting  her  safely  down  the  stairs,  and  seeing  that 
Dorla  and  Missy,  who  were  following,  got  down  safely  too. 
For  At)by  and  Felix  had  gone  on  in  advance,  as  had  seemed 
natural. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  Mrs.  Rothermel  ? "  askeo 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  297 

A.bby  of  him.  "Did  vou  know  her  when  she  wai 
jroung?" 

That  staggered  Felix,  but  he  reminded  himself  that  ha 
was  talking  to  seventeen.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  when 
she  was  quite  young." 

"  They  say  she  was  pretty,"  said  Abby,  picking  her  way 
among  the  cabbages  and  apples.  "  Was  she  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  pretty  as  I  remember  her." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  it,"  said  Abby  who  had  not  got  over 
being  laughed  at,  (t  though  she's  very  pleasant  and  nice. 
But  here's  the  last  omnibus,  and  we  shall  fill  it  up." 

l(  If  you  will  get  in,  I  will  go  back  and  see  if  I  can  help 
them  ;  they  are  still  behind." 

This  did  not  please  Abby,  but  she  had  to  wait.  Felix, 
however,  might  have  saved  her  the  pain  and  himself  the 
trouble,  for  all  the  assistance  that  he  rendered  or  the  satis- 
faction that  he  got.  Missy  repulsed  him  violently,  and 
Dorla  declined  his  arm,  and  Marie  was  carrying  al1  the 
bags  and  shawls.  When  they  returned  to  the  stage,  tney 
found  that  all  Abby's  representations  could  not  keep  it 
nnpty  for  them;  five  other  persons  were  seating  themselves 
•  t  leisure.  A  deep  gloom  settled  on  Mrs.  Bishop. 

"  This  is  a  horrid  crowd,"  cried  Abby,  springing  out. 
"  Mr.  Yarian,  don't  you  want  to  walk  ?  I  know  a  short 
cut,  up  the  Breakneck  Stairs.  We  shall  be  there  almost  as 
soon  as  they." 

Mrs.  Bishop  tried  to  remonstrate,  but  the  vehicle  was 
more  comfortable  without  them,  and  they  were  out  of  sight 
before  the  driver  got  upon  the  box. 

"  One  would  think  she  had  been  in  Quebec  a  year/'  said 
Mrs.  Bishop. 

"  And  had  known  Mr.  Yarian  all  her  life,"  said  Dorla. 

When  Felix  and  his  companion  reached  the  hotel,  they 

found  a  tight-packed  crowcs.  in  the  little  waiting-room,  and 

anxious  faces  all  around.     Henry  was  patient  as  ever,  but 

despairing.     There  was  but  one  decent  room  to  be  had,  and 

18* 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

that  must  of  course  be  assigned  to  Mrs.  Bishop.  And  to 
permit  Dorla  to  go  up  to  the  fourth  Hoor  and  lodge  in  a 
narrow  and  meanly  furnished  room,  was  a  thought  impos- 
sible  to  him. 

((  I  would  so  much  rather  have  apartments  outside,  if  one 
could  find  such  a  thing,"  said  Dorla,  looking  cheerless, 
u  With  Missy  it  would  be  so  much  better.  And  I  dislike 
hotels  so  much." 

"  But  that  would  be  breaking  up  the  party,"  said  Abby, 
who  clearly  revelled  in  perplexities  and  small  discomforts, 
when  there  was  a  prospect  of  amusement.  "  I  don't  see  why 
you  could  not  put  up  with  a  poor  room  just  for  once,  and 
we  could  be  all  together." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Henry,  "  we  can  get  some  breakfast  ; 
and  after,  we  can  devise  some  way  to  make  you  comfortable. 
Aunt  Hester,  must  you  go  to  your  room  first  ?  " 

Aunt  Hester  consented  to  waive  that  privilege,  and  they 
all  went  in  to  breakfast,  where  they  sat  around  a  small 
lable  in  the  centre  of  which  bloomed  a  scarlet  geranium  in 
*  trellised  pot.  They  all  seemed  hungry  and  merry  ;  that 
is,  Felix  and  Abby  and  Mrs.  Glover,  who  had  joined  them  in 
the  parlor,  seemed  hungry  and  merry,  and  Mrs.  Bishop  and 
Henry  and  Missy  seemed  hungry,  and  Dorla  alore  wag 
neither.  It  was  impossible  to  think  of  Henry  ae  merry. 
He  seemed  full  of  care  and  solicitude  for  Dorla,  and  for 
Missy,  who  sat  beside  him.  He  sent  the  waiter  for  three 
beefsteaks  before  he  found  one  suitable  for  her,  and  then 
he  ate  one  of  the  rejected  ones  himself  in  the  intervals 
between  ordering  things  for  her  mother  and  his  aunt. 
5^issy  certainly  ought  to  have  been  sufficiently  nourished. 
Felix  watched  Dorla  cutting  her  food,  sugaring  her  berries, 
buttering  her  toast,  in  entire  forgetfulness  of  her  own 
breakfast.  Even  Abby  noticed  it  and  exclaimed,  as  she 
Raw  a  final  slice  of  toast  go  off  the  mother's  /late  upon  the 


"  Look  at  Mrs.  Pelican  !     Mr.  Stanfield,  you  had  bettei 


A  PERVECT  ADONIS.  299 

Mrder  something  for  her  breakfast  that  Missy  cam?t  eat 
It  will  be  her  only  chance." 

"Please,  Abby,  remember  that  there  was  a  time  wher 
even  you  could  not  take  care  of  yourself,"  said  Dorla. 

"  Not  a  very  long  time,"  said  Mrs.  Glover. 

"  No,"  said  Abby,  "  I  should  have  starved  if  it  had  beer 
long." 

'*  It  is  true,"  said  her  mother  with  a  laugh,  "  that  you 
were  not  much  coddled.  T  believe  the  struggle  was  to  pre- 
vent you  from  eating  what  wasn't  intended  for  you.  I 
never  remember  the  time  when  you  could  not  forage  for 
yourself." 

"  Nobody  cut  up  my  beefsteak  for  me  to  that  mince-like 
fineness.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for  me  if  they 
had.  I  shouid  not  have  grown  to  be  so  awfully  healthy, 
Buch  a  rank  weed.  Missy  will  never  be  like  me." 

The  comparison  between  the  splendid,  well-grown  girl, 
and  the  atom  Missy,  was  too  great  to  be  enjoyed  by  Dorla. 
She  turned  away  her  head  to  give  an  order  to  the  servant, 
but  Felix  saw  her  face  grow  crimson. 

"  Is  this  festive  scene  to  be  abandoned?  "  said  Abby,  when 
at  last  there  was  an  end  of  eating  and  ordering  things  to  eat. 

"  Abby  calls  everything  '  festive,'  from  a  parasol  to  a 
mountain  view,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  while  Henry  moved 
hairs  out  of  her  way,  and  got  her  fairly  started  on  her 
passage  to  the  door. 

66  Yes !  Festive  infant,  come  with  me  ! "  cried  Abby, 
scarcely  conquering  a  polka  step  as  she  caught  Missy  by  the 
wrist  and  dashed  irreverently  before  her  elders.  Missy  was 
not  pleased,  and  showed  it  by  twisting  her  shoulders  and 
holding  back,  and  finally  by  slapping. 

"  Little  vixen  !  "  cried  Abby  dropping  her.  "  If  I  had 
luch  a  cross  child,  I'd  leave  her  in  the  nursery." 

Felix  took  this  occasion  to  fall  back  to  Dorla's  side. 
*  If  you  think  you  would  like  rooms  outside,  I  am  sure  I 
•ould  find  tbsm  for  you." 


BOO  ^  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

"  Thank  you.  Mr.  Stanfield  said  lie  was  going  o  at  t* 
try,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over." 

Felix  bowed.  He  did  not  propose  to  run  a  rase  with 
Mr.  Stanfield.  Certainly  Dorla  was  not  proving  herseJ! 
forgiving.  They  were  scarcely  in  the  parlor  when  th« 
assiduous  Henry  was  seen  issuing  forth  on  his  quest — 
seen  by  Abby,  who  was  leaning  from  the  window,  with  the 
freedom  of  her  age. 

"  Behold  your  slave  !  "  she  cribJ  to  Dorla,  who  stood  in 
the  next  window.  "  Now  we  shall  see  him  no  more  till 
he  accomplishes  your  bidding." 

"  Or  perishes  in  the  attempt,"  said  Felix. 

"  Or  perishes  in  the  attempt !  "  said  Abby.  "  It  is  quite 
medieval." 

ff  It  is  quite  unusual,"  said  Dorla  quietly,  "  if  you  mean 
his  good-nature  and  unselfishness." 

"  That  I  feel  applies  to  me,"  said  Abby,  "  because  I  teased 
Missy  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  because  I  made  Mr. 
Varian  walk  up  with  me  from  the  boat." 

"  O  no,"  returned  Dorla.     "  That  looked  quite  heroic.'' 

"  I  assure  you  it  was  fun." 

"  I  am  beyond  the  age,"  said  Mrs.  Rothermel  as  if 
wearied  with  the  subject. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Varian  is  not,  and  that  is  one  comfort. 
T  shall  have  some  one  to  help  me  laugh  \  you  and  Mrs. 
Bishop  and  mamma  of  course  can't  enter  into  things,  for 
you're  always  thinking  of  your  health  or  your  proprieties 
or  Missy,  and  Mr.  Stanfield  hasn't  a  grain  of  humor  in  him. 
Mr.  Yarian,  you  won't  let  them  be  hard  upon  me." 

"  No,  Miss  Abby,  I'll  be  medieval—" 

"  O,  please  don't  be  that.  But  just  don't  let  everybody  for- 
jet  that  I  am  young  enough  to  be  permitted  to  enjoy  myself." 

"Surely,  she  is  trying  how  disagreeable  she  can  be," 
thought  Dorla  looking  at  her  watch ;  and  then  sauntered 
about  Ihe  room  with  Missy,  while  they  talked  togethei 
In  one  of  the  deep  windows.  Marie  cam  3  and  toot 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  302 

Missy  up  to  Mrs.  Bishop's  room ;  but  still  the  hags  and 
shawls  lay  in  a  heap  upon  the  parlor  table.  Mrs.  Glovei 
came  in  compassionately  and  talked  to  Dorla,  left  alone. 

((  You  had  better  come  to  my  room  and  rest,"  she  said 
after  a  few  minutes. 

"  I  cannot  rest  ti1!  something  is  settled  about  the  rooms," 
she  answered.  "  And  really,  I  never  want  to  sit  down  in 
a  hotel.  I  want  to  walk  about  and  walk  away  the  moment 
that  there  is  a  possibility." 

"  You  are  not  a  very  good  traveller,  then,"  said  the  com- 
fortable lady,  who  was  always  at  home  and  happy  wherever 
there  was  anything  to  afford  her  entertainment. 

"  Wretched,"  said  Dorla,  and  she  could  hardly  keep  from 
crying,  she  was  so  unspeakably  homesick  and  uncomfortable. 

"  Here  he  comes,"  cried  Abby  from  the  window.  tf  And 
in  such  a  hurry,  I  am  sure  he  must  have  found  a  place." 

In  a  moment  he  was  in  the  room,  quite  radiant,  if  any- 
thing so  mild  could  be  called  radiant. 

"  Well ! "  said  Mrs.  Glover,  as  if  all  the  party  were 
equally  interested. 

"  I  think  I  have  found  exactly  what  will  suit  you,  Mrs. 
Rothermel,"  he  said.  **  Only  a  stone's  throw  from  here. 
And  large  airy  rooms,  and  a  house  that  seems  very  quiet 
and  respectable." 

"  '  However  '  did  you  hear  of  it  ?  "  cried  Abby. 

"  I  asked  some  shop-keepers,"  said  Henry,  briefly,  look- 
ing upon  it  as  an  interruption.  Indeed  he  always  looked 
upon  Abby  as  an  interruption. 

Dorla's  face  looked  much  brighter. 

"  Had  you  not  better  go  with  me  now  and  look  at 
them  ?  "  he  said  earnestly.  " It  is  only  a  little  way." 

tf  O  yes,  by  all  means,"  said  Dorla,  taking  up  her  parasol 
ind  eagerly  moving  towards  the  door. 

"  My  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Glover  in  a  voice  full  of  propri' 
tty,  "  hadn't  I  beti  <»r  go  around  with  you  ?  Excuse  me  foi 
niggesting  it." 


802  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Yes,  if  you  will,"  faltered  Dorla,  blushing  an  agonizing 
red.  "  Mr.  Stanfield  says  it  is  not  far." 

"  O,  I  don't  mind,"  she  answered  briskly.  "  Abby,  let  m* 
take  your  hat  and  gloves  ;  mine  are  on  the  roof." 

"  So  !  "  cried  Abby,  watching  them  as  they  went  out. 
"  Mamma  is  happy.  She  is  doing  three  things  that  she 
likes  best  to  do, — making  herself  guardian  of  the  proprieties, 
looking  at  rooms,  and  watching  a  flirtation.  I  don't  know 
what  she  sees  in  rooms ;  but  she  would  go  over  a  whole 
b  ')tel  and  look  at  them,  if  she  were  only  going  to  stay  one 
night." 

"  Nor  what  she  sees  in  such  a  tame  flirtation,"  added 
Felix,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  No,  it  doesn't  amuse  me  in  the  least.  But  mamma  is 
different.  A  very  little  of  that  sort  of  thing  enlivens  he"r." 

"  How  long  has  it  been  going  on  ?  "  asked  Felix  as  he 
rose.  Abby  was  afraid  he  would  go  away  for  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  with  innocent  frankness  said,  "  O,  don't  go,  and 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

So  Felix  stayed,  and  Abby  made  a  long  story  out  of  what 
was  truly  a  very  short  one.  Mrs.  Bishop's  heart  was  sec 
upon  the  match,  and  she  had  fastened  herself  upon  Dorla, 
and  arranged  things  so  that  they  should  always  be  thrown 
together. 

"  I  don't  believe  the  estimable  Henry  has  much  money," 
said  Abby,  (at  second-hand  surely,  for  she  was  too  young  to 
originate  such  suspicions.)  "  And  you  know  Mrs.  Rother- 
inel  has  a  great  deal,  they  say." 

"  Has  she  ?  "  said  Felix.    "  Was  her  husband  very  rich  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Yes,  1  suppose  so ;  anyway,  she  is  called 
ft  fortune,  and  people  talk  about  her." 

u  Has  she  attracted  many  followers,  or  is  the  worthy 
Henry  the  only  one  in  the  field  at  present  ?  " 

"  0>  as  to  that,  I  don't  suppose  she  has  anybody  elsa 
WTiy,you  koow,  at  her  age,  of  course  it  would  not  be  nati* 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  308 

u  Not  if  she  were  very  rich  ?  "  said  Felix,  with  a  smile. 

Then  Abby,  seeing  a  movement  of  restlessness  on  his  part, 
began  to  fear  that  he  would  yet  escape,  and  hurried  te 
change  the  subject,  and  to  interest  him  in  the  matter  of  thd 
Saguenay. 

"  Mamma  thinks  we  had  much  better  go  to-morrow,"  said 
she,  "  and  make  our  stay  here  on  our  return.  It  is  no  use 
waiting  for  the  Collinsons  ;  they  would  have  telegraphed  if 
they  had  been  coming.  But  I  am  sorry  ;  they  would  have 
been  jollier  than  Mrs.  Rothermel  and  Henry  Stanfield." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Glover  came  walking  briskly  in  ;  she 
was  stout  and  heavy  but  incredibly  brisk  always.  Dorla 
and  Mr.  Stanfield  followed  her.  She  looked  much  pleased 
to  find  her  daughter  still  so  well  engaged. 

"  We  have  found  such  an  excellent  place,"  she  said.  "  I 
really  wish  we  could  all  go  there.  But  that  is  quite  impos- 
sible," she  added  promptly,  seeing  Felix  interested. 

"  Yes,  it  is  just  the  thing  I  wanted,"  said  Dorla,  looking 
so  relieved.  "  Now  I'm  willing  to  stay  as  long  as  anybody 
wants  to  in  Quebec." 

"You  were  very  homesick,  I  could  see,"  said  Henry, 
looking  as  happy  as  before  he  had  looked  anxious. 

"  You  were  very  kind  about  it,"  answered  Dorla,  sud- 
denly remembering  his  part  in  the  matter.  "  I  suppose  we 
should  never  have  heard  of  it,  if  you  had  not  taken  jo  much 
trouble. 

"  A  parlor  and  two  bed-rooms,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Glover, 
"  all  so  neat  and  old-fashioned,  and  a  general  air  of  respecta- 
bility about  the  house." 

"  A  parlor,  how  swell !  "  exclaimed  Abby ;  "  we  shall  come 
and  spend  our  evenings  with  you." 

"  Well,  you  may,  if  you  do  not  make  a  noise  and  wake  up 
Missy.  For  my  room  opens  from  the  parlor." 

"  I  won't  go  anywhere  that  1  can't  make  a  noise,"  said 
Aobj. 


304  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  I  must  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Bishop,"  said  Dorla,  '<  and  Mr 
S  t&nfield,  will  you  have  my  luggage  sent  around? ?J 

Away  went  Dorla  with  scarcely  a  nod  to  those  she  left 
behind,  and  away  went  Henry  in  another  direction  to  see  that 
her  baggage  was  properly  bestowed. 

ft  Well,  really,"  said  Abby,  "  she  takes  it  very  coolly,  going 
away  from  us.  I  think  she  actually  is  pleased,  and  she 
hasn't  said  good-bye." 

"  O,  it  is  only  a  step.  And  it  is  quite  as  well.  The 
child  would  be  worrying  all  the  time  in  the  hotel.  And 
theie  she  will  trouble  no  one,"  answered  Mrs.  Glover. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  now  that  we  have  disposed  of  Mrs. 
Rothermel  ?  "  said  Abby  with  an  anxious  eye  on  Mr.  Yarian. 

"  Why  you  forget,  in  our  care  for  Mrs.  Rothermel,  that 
we  have  not  heard  whether  Mr.  Varian  has  any  room." 

"  They  tell  me  there  are  several  single  rooms  on  the  fifth 
floor.  I  am  sure  any  of  them  will  do  for  me." 

"  O,"  said  Abby,  "  what  a  comfort,  to  hear  any  one  say 
that.  Not  like  Mrs.  E-othermel,  who  must  have  a  parlor  and 
no  end  of  comforts  before  she  can  make  up  her  mind  to  stay 
a  week." 

((  But  I  haven't  a  Missy  or  a  Marie  or  any  of  those  luxu- 
ries." 

"  Be  thankful  that  you  haven't,  then." 

While  Felix  asserted  his  gratitude  for  the  freedom  he  en. 
joyed,  the  two  who  were  the  subjects  of  their  criticism  were 
being  taken  to  Mount  Carmel  Street,  under  convoy  of  Henry 
and  a  porter.  Missy  was  as  well  contented  as  her  mother, 
but  her  satisfaction  arose  principally  from  the  hope  of  get- 
ting rid  of  Mr.  Felix  Yarian,  who  had  walked  over  her. 

Mount  Carmel  Street  consists,  apparently,  of  two  steep 
blocks,  cut  off  above  by  a  gateway  that  encloses  a  garden 
and  at  the  lower  by  the  street  and  railing  that  cut  th* 
Governor's  Garden  in  two.  The  two  narrow  blocks  are 
quietness  itself,  like  all  of  Quebec ;  the  houses  are  plain  old 
brick  buildings ;  the  sidewalks  are  about  the  width  of  a  cow 


A  PERFECT  ADONIB.  305 

path.  Over  the  iron  railing  at  the  end  you  look  down  upon 
the  tree  tops  in  the  garden  below,  and  beyond  you  see  across 
the  river  the  glittering  roofs  of  Point  Levis.  •  The  Governor's 
Garden  abuts  on  one  of  the  two  blocks,  and  on  that 
side  there  are  no  houses.  If  this  is  all  of  Mount  Carmel 
Street  there  is  very  little  of  it.  But  there  was  quite  enough 
to  charm  Dorla,  and  make  her  willing  to  stay  in  it  a  great 
while. 

When  in  the  three  rooms  that  were  her  own  possession,  she 
was  quite  full  of  pleasure.  The  trunks  were  soon  unpacked ; 
a  great  chair  wheeled  up  to  the  wide,  deep  window  ;  the  table 
strewed  with  books,  the  little  old  slender  champagne  glasses, 
that  the  French  servant  brought  them  for  the  purpose,  filled 
with  flowers  that  Missy  had  heaped  her  apron  with  in  the 
garden  below.  There  was  an  old-fashioned  mirror  the 
length  of  the  mantelpiece,  long  and  narrow  ;  and  a  deep  fire- 
place, with  a  grate  adorned  with  brass.  Indeed,  wherever 
there  could  be  brass  about  the  room,  there  was  brass,  and  it 
all  shone  like  gold.  There  was  a  great  deep  sofa ;  and  great 
generous  chairs,  and  acres  of  table  room  ;  a  table  where  you 
could  have  your  work-basket  and  your  lamp,  and  piles  of 
books  and  papers  and  a  writing  desk,  and  your  pressing 
boards  and  six  glasses  of  ferns  if  you  wanted  them,  and 
whence  you  need  never  go  for  want  of  room,  whatever  were 
your  occupation.  "  Ruddy  and  strong  and  firm  on  its  legs," 
a  John  Bull  of  a  table,  worth  a  dozen  rickety  fragile  things 
all  gilt  and  enamel  and  quiver.  Dorla  thought  it  all  delight- 
ful. There  was  room  enough  in  her  bedroom  for  the  trunks, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  remind  her  that  she  was  a  stranger 
fcnd  a  pilgrim,  and  could  tarry  but  a  night. 

It  was  afternoon,  and  Missy,  worn  out  with  walks  in  the 
Governor's  Garden  and  climbings  up  the  narrow  street,  had 
fallen  asleep  on  the  wide  sofa.  Her  mother  had  drawn  up  a 
chair  to  the  side  of  the  table,  and  was  dreamily  reading  or 
•eeming  to  real.  The  day  was  warm  outsid?,  and  the  light 


806  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

was  shaded  to  a  cool  dimness.     A  servant  brought  in  Mr 
Varian.     Dorla  started,  and  laid  down  her  book. 

"To  what  are.  you  indebted  for  the  honor,  etc.?"  begai 
Felix ;  "  I  will  tell  you.  Mrs.  Glover  and  Mrs.  Bishop  want 
to  go  to  the  falls  of  Montmorenci  this  afternoon,  and  they 
hope  you  are  ready  to  go  with  them." 

Dorla  had  a  sudden,  wicked  suspicion  that  she  was  to  go 
with  the  elderlies,  and  that  Abby  was  to  be  driven  by  Felix, 
and  this  she  resented  hotly.  Not  that  she  was  not  elderly, 
but  Felix  was  much  more  so,  and  Abby  had  become  intoler- 
able in  her  youthfulness.  "  No,"  she  said  coldly,  "  I  am 
afraid  I  cannot  go  with  them.  I  am  a  little  tired  and  want 
to  rest." 

Felix  bowed.  "  Miss  Abby  said  she  was  quite  sure  you 
would  not  go." 

"  Miss  Abby  is  very  wise,  considering  her  tender  years." 

"  Yes,  very  wise,"  said  Felix — "  and  you  cannot  go  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  very  sorry ;  but  it  would  be  a  bore  to  me,  and 
I  only  want  to  rest.  We  have  been  travelling  for  two  weeks. 
It  is  a  luxury  to  have  a  room  of  one's  own  to  rest  in;" 

"  You  look  very  homelike  here,"  said  Felix,  glancing 
around  the  room.  "  I  don't  wonder  you  want  to  stay.  I  hate 
a  hotel.  I  always  feel  so  restless  in  one." 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  got  used  to  them 
by  this  time." 

"  No,"  said  Felix  dreamily,  "  I  never  have  got  used  to 
them,  and  have  not  even  learned  to  fancy  that  I  am  con- 
tented with  my  way  of  life.  But  I  go  on  in  it,  and  very 
likely  shall  go  on  in  it  to  the  end." 

There  was  a  pause ;  it  was  impossible  for  either  to  doubt 
of  what  the  other  thought.  Dorla  thought  she  knew  that 
Felix  was  thinking  of  the  different  life  he  would  have  led  if 
that  March  day  had  had  a  different  ending,  thinking  of  the 
prosiness  and  dulness  of  a  life  with  her — he  who  was  compan- 
ionable to  girls  of  seventeen.  And  Felix  felt  sure  she  was  full 
of  cold  and  slighting  thoughts  of  the  past  that  they  might 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  307 

each  despise  but  never  could  forget.  Her  voice  had  been 
always  cold  since  her  rejected  kindness  of  the  night  before, 
but  it  was  a  shade  colder  when  she  came  out  from  this  re  very. 
She  reverted  to  the  drive  and  said,  with  the  manner  of  one 
who  does  not  want  to  keep  a  district  telegraph  boy  an  unneces- 
sary length  of  time  in  waiting,  "  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Bishop 
will  understand,  for  she  knew  that  I  was  tired.  I  hope  it 
has  not  detained  them,  sending  in  for  me." 

tf  No,  I  think  not,"  answered  Felix,  determined  not  to  be 
rebuffed.  There  was  something  in  the  shaded,  cool  room, 
.hat  was  much  more  attractive  to  him  than  the  hot  hotel 
parlor,  with  servants  passing  and  repassing,  and  a  few  bored 
sojourners  occupying  the  best  sofas.  Besides,  it  was  rather 
a  rare  chance  to  see  Mrs.  Rothermel  without  interruption 
from  her  daughter  or  the  aspirant  for  her  hand,  and  he  was 
self-willed  enough  to  be  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
So  he  did  not  take  up  his  book,  like  a  district  telegraph 
youth,  and  make  his  exit,  R.  C.,  but  he  sat  quite  still  and 
looked  at  Dorla,  as  he  said, 

"  No,  I  think  their  going  depended  much  on  yours.  But 
it  is  too  warm  to  go  for  pleasure  yet.  I  think  Mr.  Stanfield 
will  strongly  advise  giving  up  the  expedition." 

Dorla  was  very  angry  with  herself  for  coloring.  She 
would  gladly  have  met  the  insinuation  with  the  coldness 
that  she  felt,  but  instead  of  doing  so,  she  was  reddening 
like  a  girl  of  seventeen,  and  was  sitting  before  Felix  with 
her  eyes  cast  down  and  cheeks  in  a  glow.  He  did  not 
take  his  eyes  off  her,  the  insolent.  And  there  was  a  kind 
3f  amused  triumph  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke,  as  if  he 
thought  it  most  diverting  that  a  person  of  her  age  should 
blush  so,  or  have  a  suitor,  or  do  anything  that  implied  the 
existence  of  life  and  feeling.  At  least  so  Dorla  looked  upon 

it 

"And  he  is  so  busy  preparing  for  the  Saguenay  to- 
sorrow,"  he  said,  at  last  breaking  the  oppressive  silence. 
*  I  heard  Miss  Abby  tell  him  thaf  Missy  would  need  a  ne* 


808  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

doll,  and  various  illustrated  nursery  books,  to  get  her  through 
the  journey.  And  I  interrupted  a  caucus  over  guide -booki 
and  Canadian  literature." 

"  You  will  need  it  all,"  said  Dorla,  "  if  you  have  not 
read  up  recently.  I  was  going  to  offer  you  my  Parkman, 
and  two  or  three  stray  books  which  I  have  picked  up  here." 

"  But  you  will  need  them  yourself." 

"  No,  I  shall  not,"  said  Dorla,  looking  up  full  at  him, 
"  for  I  am  not  going  up  the  Saguenay." 

"  Not  going!  "  said  Felix,  with  a  blank  expression;  for 
he  had  not  thought  of  such  a  possibility ;  and  he  had  not 
prepared  his  mind  for  two  days  and  a  half  of  seventeen ; 
caramels  and  story  books  might  possibly  pall  upon  his 
senses.  tf  Surely  you  will  change  your  mind." 

"  No,  it  is  not  possible.  I  do  not  want  to  go,  to  begin 
the  matter,  for  I  am  tired  and  want  to  have  a  quiet  time. 
And  besides,  it  is  110  place  for  Missy.  She  is  not  strong 
enough  to  go  about  on  such  expeditions,  and  she  would  be 
unhappy  all  the  time." 

"  Could  you  not  leave  her  here  ?  "  asked  Felix.  "  It 
would  be  for  such  a  little  time." 

Dorla  gave  him  a  look  which  would  have  been  contemptu- 
ous if  she  had  not  been  well-bred.  "  No,"  she  said  very 
quietly.  "  It  would  be  impossible.  I  never  am  separated 
from  Missy."  And  the  contemptuous  glance,  in  all  its  cold 
repression,  wandered  to  the  sofa,  and  changed  to  a  solicitoua 
and  loving  one  as  it  fell  upon  the  figure  of  the  child.  Felix 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  confess  my  ignorance,"  he  said,  "  both  of  the  necessi- 
ties of  children,  and  of  their  attractions.  I  never  realized  a 
parent's  cruel  bondage  before.  Do  all  mothers  and  fathers 
endure  this  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  What  sort  of  thing  ?  "  she  said,  really  almosi  tartly. 
**  Giving  up  the  bliss  of — going  up  the  Saguenay,  for  the 
health  and  comfort  of  a  child  ?  Yes.  I  imagine  A  good 
many  are  capable  of  even  that  tremendous  sacrifice." 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  309 

*  Well,"  he  answered,  "  I  think  it  must  be  a  w /etched 

life,  that's  all." 

"  Yes  ?  "  And  when  she  said  "  yes  "  interrogatively,  it 
was  a  clash  of  silvery  icicles,  and  was  meant  to  put  an  end  to 
further  conversation  on  the  subject.  A  sort  of  "  Finis  "  in 
a  frost  work.  But  Felix  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  put  an  end 
to  in  that  fashion.  He  defied  Dorla  and  her  interrogatory 
yes-es,  and  boldly  laughed  and  said : 

"  Most  people  who  have  children  are  depressed  and 
dull,  I  know ;  but  I  always  thought  it  was  because  they  had 
grown  old,  and  not  because  they  were  under  such  an  iron 
rule." 

"  I  suppose  it  must  be  both,"  retorted  Dorla.  "  People 
who  have  nothing  to  live  for,  slide  along  glibly,  and  have  a 
sort  of  perpetual  and  unmeaning  youth." 

"  That  is  possible,  if  parental  affection  is  the  only  devel- 
opment that  is  worth  speaking  of  in  the  history  of  the 
heart." 

"  It  certainly  is  the  only  one  that  produces  any  marked 
and  lasting  revolution." 

At  this  moment  Missy  turned  and  threw  herself  into  an- 
other not  ungraceful  attitude,  and  muttered  a  little  in  her 
sleep ;  which  had  the  result  of  bringing  Dorla  quickly  to  her 
side,  and  dispersing  the  cloud  upon  her  brow.  Missy's 
cheek  was  flushed,  and  Dorla  laid  her  hand  quickly  and 
lightly  on  it,  with  attentive  touch,  and  then  went  across  the 
room  and  brought  a  light  embroidered  blanket  and  threw  it 
over  her.  Felix  and  his  hateful  speeches  were  quite  forgot- 
ten in  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  soft  moisture  on  the 
baby  skin.  Felix  saw  it  and  it  almost  put  him  in  a  passion. 

At  that  moment,  the  servant  brought  up  Mr.  Stanfield'a 
name.  In  the  interval  that  elapsed  before  she  could  return 
with  him,  Dorla  said,  "  Please  do  not  say  anything  about  my 
dot  going  with  the  party  to-morrow.  I  do  not  want  any  dif« 
feren  36  made,  and  it  will  be  time  enough  to  mention  it  to 
night" 


310  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  I  doubt  whether  that  will  soften  the  blow,"  said  Fell* 
with  perverseness.  "  But  of  course  I  will  respect  your 
wishes." 

Mr.  Stanfield  came  in,  truly  enough,  laden  with  a  bundle 
that  had  the  unmistakable  outlines  of  a  big  doll — indeed,  the 
feet  were  sticking  out — and  bearing  also  a  number  of 
colored  nursery  books.  His  face  had  an  expression  of 
anxious  fervor.  He  had,  as  Abby  said,  no  sense  of  humor, 
and  was  not  suspicious.  He  did  not  look  displeased  at  sea 
ing  Felix,  (though  probably  he  would  rather  not  have  found 
him  there,)  and  but  faintly  surprised.  He  had  not  the  least 
idea  of  being  ashamed  of  his  devotion,  and  his  open  honesty 
in  the  matter  was  a  great  trial  to  its  object.  While  she 
approved  of  his  singleness  of  purpose,  and  unquestionable 
Bincerity,  she  was  constantly  embarrassed  by  their  manifes- 
tation, and  saw  always  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  situations 
into  which  they  led  her.  Still,  this  was  perhaps  in  the  end 
in  his  favor,  for  she  felt  so  angry  with  herself  for  returning 
such  loyalty  with  ridicule,  that  she  was  doubly  kind  to  him 
on  the  next  occasion  of  their  meeting,  and  was  being  slowly 
drawn  into  a  net-work  of  gratitude  and  penitence.  His 
tenderness  for  Missy,  and  the  child's  great  love  for  him,  gave 
him  of  course  a  place  that  nothing  else  could  have  done.  And 
when  he  entered  the  room,  where  Felix,  cool  and  taunting, 
Bat  spectator,  with  the  huge  doll  and  its  droll  feet  in  one 
hand  and  the  gaudy  pictures  in  the  other,  she  felt  in  a  rage 
with  him  for  making  himself  absurd,  and  yet  in  a  moment 
was  melted  with  shame  at  so  rewarding  his  affectionate  de- 
votion to  the  child.  It  was  felt  to  be  a  relief  by  both  when 
Felix,  a  moment  after  his  entrance,  rose  to  go.  Certainly  he 
could  do  nothing  else. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will 
positively  refuse  our  drive." 

"  That  is  one  thing  that  I  came  about,"  said  Henry,  put- 
ting down  the  doll  with  care.  "  They  are  waiting,  and 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  311 

Mem  to  take  it  for  granted  that  you  mean  to  go.  Misi 
A.bby  and  Mra.  Bishop  are  already  in  the  carriage." 

Then  Dorla  felt  ashamed  of  herself,  when  she  found  her 
suspicions  were  unjust,  and  that  Abby  was  really  going  in 
the  carriage,  and  not  ttte-h-tete  with  Felix.  She  also  began 
to  feel  that  it  would  have  been  very  nice  to  go  out  to  the 
Falls,  but  it  was  too  late  to  entertain  the  proposition.  So 
Bhe  could  only  reiterate  her  refusal  and  send  first  one  and 
then  the  other  away,  respectively,  exasperated  and  dejected. 

The  next  morning  at  seven,  Mrs.  Glover  and  Abby  and 
Felix  were  waiting  on  the  steamer  for  the  coming  of 
Henry  Stanfield.  The  defection  of  Dorla  was  made  known 
to  them  late  on  the  night  before.  Mrs.  Bishop  had  at  once 
given  out,  and  poor  Henry  was  rent  with  anxiety  and  disap- 
pointment. Having  headed  the  party  as  it  were,  even  to  his 
single  eye,  the  situation  was  perplexing. 

"  He  will  not  come,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Abby,  lean- 
ing over  the  rail  and  gazing  into  the  crowd  below.  "And 
I  am  sure  I  hope  he  won't.  We  shall  have  to  be  comforting 
him  all  the  time.  It  will  be  like  taking  a  family  in  affliction 
for  an  airing.  Our  spirits  will  be  extinguished,  and  he  will 
not  be  revived." 

Speculations  were  soon  superseded  by  certainty;  as  the 
last  whistle  blew,  the  figure  of  Henry  Stanfield  was  seen 
hurriedly  making  its  way  down  across  the  wharf.  "He 
has  not  any  valise,"  cried  Abby,  clapping  her  hands.  "  Be- 
hold the  President  of  the  Widows'  Society!  He  cannot 
•eave  his  post." 

It  was  even  so.  He  hastily  explained  that  tho  last  few 
days  of  travel  seemed  to  have  told  upon  his  aunt,  and  thaf 
she  was  really  unfit  to  be  left  alone  in  a  hotel,  and  that  she 
could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  go  without  Mrs.  Eothermel. 
Altogether,  he  thought  it  was  best  for  him  to  stay;  it  would 
ta  so  uncomfortable  fo  ?  both  of  the  ladies  to  be  left  without 
protection  in  a  strange  city.  It  was  all  very  transparent — 
"tLin,"  Abby  was  vile  enough  to  call  it.  But  the  with- 


312  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

drawal  of  the  plank  cut  short  the  awkwardness  of  the  situa 
tion,  and  their  regrets  were  vaguely  ended  in  a  shout  of  all 
aboard.  Henry  regained  the  wharf  with  alacrity,  and  wal 
seen  hurrying  away  without  a  look  behind. 

"  Glad  to  be  quit  of  us,"  said  Felix,  with  a  sardonic  laugh. 
A  nd  so  the  Sagu^nay  party  was  cleft  in  twain :  Abby,  Mrs, 
Glover  and  Felix  launched  upon  the  waves,  and  Dorla, 
Henry  and  Mrs.  Bishop  anchored  by  Missy  in  the  harbor  of 
Quebec. 

It  was  the  third  day  after  this  unwept  parting,  that  Felix, 
bathed  and  dressed  and  rested  from  his  journey,  sauntered 
out  from  the  Hotel  St.  Louis.  The  afternoon  was  beautiful ; 
the  long  shadows  were  lying  across  the  market-place,  and 
vhe  soft  air  was  freshened  by  the  low  sinking  of  the  sun. 
He  sauntered  down  past  the  Jesuit  Barracks,  not  caring 
where  he  went.  He  had  nearly  an  hour  before  dinner,  and 
he  had  nothing  better  to  do  with  it  than  to  saunter  up  and 
down  the  precipitous  old  streets,  and  feast  his  eye  upon  the 
picturesque  and  venerable. 

A  little  crowd  was  gathering  in  the  square,  and  he  idly 
drew  towards  it.  The  centre  point  was  a  tall  Frenchman, 
with  blonde  beard  and  black  eyes,  who  stood  upon  a  sort 
of  cart,  and  marshalled  about  him  a  flock  of  trained  doves. 
He  held  up  a  white  flag  and  called  out  in  a  not  unmusical 
voice,  "  a  vous,  Capitaine,"  and  from  the  flock  flew  the 
Capitaine  and  perched  upon  it.  Then  he  shook  out  another 
of  another  color,  crying, ((  a  vous,  Caporal,"  and  the  Caporal 
fluttered  down  upon  it :  and  so  on,  till  all  the  many  colored 
flags  were  claimed  by  the  gentle  little  army.  The  crowd 
never  seemed  to  tire.  Felix  watched  their  faces  with 
amusement.  And  after  a  few  moments,  his  glance  wandered 
to  the  sidewalk,  where  people,  who  had  not  energy  to  come 
aearci  to  tne  show,  were  gazing  at  it  listlessly.  Girls  leaned 
out  of  the  wide-open  casement  windows,  men  lounged  about 
the  doorways  Time  is  not  gold  in  the  City  of  Quebec 
And  upon  somo  stone  steps  sat  Porla,  making  a  verj 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  313 


pretty  picture  in  her  light  summer  clothes,  holding 
entranced,  beside  her,  and  with  Marie  —  cap  and  big  parasol 
most  prominent  —  standing  just  behind  her.  In  an  instant 
Felix  made  his  way  to  them  ;  for  by  some  oversight  Henry 
was  not  there.  Dorla  greeted  him  pleasantly,  and  Missy 
was  too  much  enthralled  by  the  Caporal  and  Capitaine  to  do 
more  than  twist  herself  away  from  him  and  fling  her  head 
against  her  mother's  shoulder. 

"  You  are  safe  back,"  said  Dorla. 

"  Yes." 

"And  how  are  the  rest  of  the  party  ?  " 

"  O,  well,  I  think,  only  a  little  tired." 

"You  were  enchanted  with  the  scenery,  I  suppos*? 
Everybody  is." 

"  Yes,  that  is,  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  be,  but  I  was  not. 
The  fact  is,  there  were  noisy  people  on  the  boat.  And  I 
have  confided  to  you  many  times  that  I  don't  like  noisy 
people." 

"I  remember,"  said  Dorla,  with  the  sweetness  of  old 
days.  "  You  would  like  to  go  up  the  Saguenay  in  a  bark- 
canoe  or  in  a  special  steamer." 

But  this  was  too  pleasant  to  last;  Missy  began  to  pull 
her  mother's  head  down  with  both  her  hands,  and  whisper 
something  eagerly. 

"  You  can't,"  said  Dorla,  a  shade  less  gentle  in  tone  than 
usual.  "  I  cannot  go  in  such  a  crowd  with  you.  You  can 
see  very  well  from  here." 

But  Missy  was  persistent  and  eager,  and  there  was  very 
little  prospect  of  more  conversation.  At  last  Felix  finding 
the  drift  of  her  whispered  frettings  from  her  mother's  an- 
swers, offered  to  take  her  out  into  the  neighborhood  of  the 
doves,  and  bring  her  safely  back  when  her  curiosity  should 
be  satisfied.  Missy  looked  at  him  askance,  when  her  mother 
said  he  was  very  kind  and  that  she  might  go  with  him.  She 
bated  him  as  ever,  but  she  longed  with  all  hor  vehement 
little  soul  to  see  Caporal  and  Capitaine  face  to  face,  and  to 
14 


314  A  PEHFECT  ADONIS. 

hear  exactly  what  the  Frenchman  said  from  under  his  blonds 
beard.  She  was  so  little,  she  went  through  life,  at  least  had 
gone  through  it  so  far,  under  a  disadvantage — people  from 
their  waists  up  were  always  in  her  way. 

((  And  I  will  put  you  on  my  shoulder,  Missy,"  said  Felix, 
suavely.  "  You  will  be  higher  than  anybody  in  the  crowd. 
And  we  will  go  quite  near." 

This  was  more  than  she  could  resist ;  she  would  not  con- 
sent in  words,  but  she  permitted  herself  to  be  lifted  in 
his  arms  and  carried  towards  the  coveted  position.  Dorla 
looked  quite  happy  as  she  waved  her  hand  to  them.  Felix  was 
doing  his  best  to  explain  the  pageant  to  her,  and  to  amuse 
her  and  make  the  most  of  his  time,  and  Dorla  was  watching 
them  with  an  amused  smile ;  when  Henry  Stanfield,  drawn 
by  envious  fate,  crossed  the  square,  and  Missy,  following  the 
downward  swoop  of  one  of  the  frrds,  caught  sight  of  him. 

She  called  his  name  in  a  shrill  voice,  and  when  he  ap- 
proached her,  stretched  out  her  arms  and  demanded  to  be 
taken.  Felix,  looking  upon  Mr.  Stauneld's  joining  them  as 
an  impertinence,  tried  to  ignore  him  and  divert  her.  But 
Missy  was  not  the  sort  of  child  one  "  diverts  "  with  success 
She  made  it  evident  with  feet  and  hands,  though  she  scorned 
to  speak  to  him,  that  she  meant  to  get  away  from  him. 
In  fact,  she  kicked  him  quite  defiantly  in  the  chest,  before 
she  succeeded  in  getting  herself  transferred  to  the  arms  of 
her  slave. 

"  You  will  not  be  so  high,  Missy,"  said  Felix,  with  the 
double  purpose  of  covering  his  wrath  by  speaking  carelessly, 
and  of  annoying  his  rival  by  an  allusion  to  his  undersize. 
Missy's  answer  was  to  put  her  arms  around  her  bearer's 
aeck,  and  kiss  him  defiantly.  Felix  laughed,  and  went 
back  to  the  sidewalk  where  Dorla  sat.  But  he  was  flushed, 
and  Dorla  knew  he  was  angry. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  looking  distressed.  "  Missy  ia 
10  wilful." 

The  gentleness  of  her  tone  soothed  Felix,  and  he  sat 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  315 

beside  her,  feeling  that  he  had  the  best  of  it.  and  hoping 
Missy  would  insist  on  keeping  her  servant  in  the  ci  owd  for 
fin  hour  at  least. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been 
thrown  over  with  contempt.  In  fact,  I  have  been  kicked 
into  the  bargain." 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed,  coloring  and  looking  infinitely 
distressed. 

"  I  hope  you  will  use  your  influence  with  your  daughter 
to  treat  me  with  more  leniency." 

"  I  shall  certainly  punish  her,"  said  Dorla.  "  And  I 
think  you  are  very  kind  to  bear  it,  and  not  be  angry.  She 
is  very  naughty." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  only  be  good,  I'll  agree  not  to  think 
anything  more  about  it." 

This  Felix  said  in  a  natural,  boyish  sort  of  way,  taking  off 
his  straw  hat  and  fanning  himself,  for  carrying  Missy  through 
the  crowd  had  made  him  warm,  to  say  nothing  of  his  rebuff. 
Dorla  laughed,  a  little  uneasily,  and  did  not  push  the  dis- 
cussion any  further.  They  talked  a  little,  and  watched  the 
doves  idly,  with  the  rest  of  the  people.  Capitaine  and 
Caporal  performed  their  duties  with  diligence  and  vigilance. 
But  bye  and  bye  at  a  signal,  the  flock  all  flew  away,  up  to 
the  chimney-pots  and  the  ledges  of  the  neighboring  houses, 
and  Missy's  eyes  grew  amazed  and  disappointed,  for  she 
thought  the  end  had  come.  Then  the  man  blew  a  shrill 
whistle,  and  the  obedient  birds,  fluttering  from  the  ledges 
and  roofs,  swept  down  in  a  graceful  circle  against  the  blue 
sky,  down  above  the  heads  of  the  gazing  crowd,  and  settled 
around  their  master's  hand. 

Then  Missy  gave  a  shrill  cry  of  delight,  that  made  every- 
body turn  and  look  at  her.  She  saw  the  show  was  going 
endlessly  on,  and  it  was  to  be  hoped  Henry's  arms  were  not 
tired,  for  she  had  no  idea  of  going  away  at  present.  Felix 
with  inward  satisfaction  saw  him  shift  her  from  one  shoul- 
ier  to  the  other,  and  furtively  wipe  the  perspiration  off  hii 


316  A  PERFECT  ADONIS 

forehead.  How  comfortable  and  cool  he  felt,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  old  stone  house !  And  how  gentle  Dorla  was,  and 
how  beautiful  she  looked,  in  her  pretty  summer  dress !  They 
did  not  talk  much :  he  occupied  himself  in  making  out  the 
legend  on  a  bracelet  she  wore  on  the  arm  that  lay  nearest 
him.  She  did  not  move  for  many  minutes ;  and  he  read 
it  quite  perfectly.  And  then  he  thought  of  the  day  that  he 
had  looked  at  her  hand  as  it  lay  outstretched  on  the  table  in 
the  car.  How  strange,  that  he  should  be  again  beside 
her,  with  such  strangely  different  feelings  !  Were  they  two 
the  same  beings  who  had  gone  through  that  storm  of  passiou 
and  temptation  ?  It  all  seemed  like  a  dream.  But  her  hand 
was  very  beautiful,  even  though  he  might  not  feel  ready  to 
risk  time  and  eternity  for  the  touch  of  it,  as  he  once  had 
been.  Bye  and  bye  she  stirred  it,  and  beat  a  little  idle  tune 
with  it,  following  the  notes  of  a  violin  within.  Then  some 
one  wanted  to  pass,  and  she  had  to  rise. 

"  It  is  twenty  minutes  to  six,"  she  said ;  "  I  must  go 
home  to  dinner." 

"  Must  Missy  go  too  ?  "  he  said  rising.  "  She  looks  as 
if  it  would  break  her  heart."  Tender  Felix !  How  much 
he  cared  about  her  heart. 

"  No,"  said  Dorla,  looking  at  her  wistfully.  "  She  has 
had  her  dinner.  She  can  stay  with  Marie.  Marie,  be  sure 
not  to  lose  sight  of  Mr.  Stanfield,  and  to  bring  Missy  home 
as  soon  as  she  is  willing  to  come  away  from  here." 

Then  they  moved  slowly  along  the  sidewalk,  looking  back 
at  the  patient  Henry  and  the  absorbed  Missy,  neither  oi 
wiiom  saw  them  go. 

"  You're  not  afraid  she  may  enlist  ?  "  said  Felix. 

"  No,"  said  Dorla. 

"  She  doesn't  look  unlike  it,"  continued  Felix,  "  such  a 
white  mite,  perched  on  Mr.  Stanfield's  shoulder.  She 
might  fly  off  at  any  minute." 

"  I'm  reassured  by  thinking  that  she  would  not  be  likelj 
to  pass  muster  in  a  regiment  of  doves,"  ret  irned  her  mothez 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  31  7 

Then  Felix  laughed  and  said  he  must  admit  it,  remem- 
bering the  rancorous  way  in  which  she  had  pecked  at  him, 
They  walked  up  the  steep  little  street,  and  past  the  hotel. 

"  Dreary  place !  "  cried  Felix.  "  Five  and  seventy  diffct 
ent  smells  from  every  window  of  the  kitchen." 

"  But,  hear  this  cheery  little  song.  I  always  stop  for  it,*' 
said  Dorla.  From  the  window  of  the  laundry  came  a  gay, 
young  voice,  so  full  of  energy  and  vigor,  that  it  gave  one 
fresh  life  to  listen  to  it.  Stooping  down  and  looking  in  the 
basement  window,  they  saw  a  be-soaped  and  hard-at-work 
young  figure,  bending  and  lifting  itself  again  monotonously 
over  a  wash-tub,  and  trilling  out  this  careless  merriment. 

"  She  knows  me,"  said  Dorla,  giving  her  a  nod,  as  they 
moved  away.  ff  I  hear  her  every  day.  It  makes  me 
ashamed  to  think  what  a  different  song  I  should  sing  if  I 
were  shut  up  there." 

"  Probably  you  would  not  find  the  policemen  and  the 
hackmen  as  inspiring  an  audience  as  she  does." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  you  think  she  sings  for  them  to  hear  her." 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,  I  fear  to  tell  you  that  I  think  she 
does." 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry  that  I  called  your  attention  to  her.  I 
shall  always  believe  she  sings  because  she  is  light-hearted  ; 
but  your  hateful  suggestion  will  always  come  into  my  mind 
to  spoil  my  pleasure  in  her  song." 

"  Then  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  made  it,  I  am  sure.  I  am 
quite  willing  to  modify  it,  and  say  she  sings  because  she 
hasn't  anything  to  worry  about,  a/nd  because  the  policemen 
are  standing  just  outside." 

Dorla  felt  sure  she  was  meant  to  suffer  from  the  allusion  to 
worry,  so  she  did  not  pursue  the  subject. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  said  Felix,  as  they  stood  on  the  steps 
of  the  house  in  Mount  Carmel  Street.  "  It  is  still  ten  min- 
.tes  to  your  dinner  hour." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Dorla,  "  and  we  are  not  rigid  as  to  punc- 
tuality." 


318  *  PERFECT  ADONlfL 

"When  Felix  found  himself  in  the  great,  easy  chair  by  th« 
open  window,  he  could  have  wished  dinner  an  hour  off. 
Dorla  sat  down  and  began  to  change  the  paper  between 
gome  ferns  that  she  was  pressing,  taking  off  her  hat  and 
laying  it  beside  her  on  the  sofa. 

"  This  we  got  on  the  way  from  Lorette,  where  wo  went 
yesterday  to  drive,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a  meagre  little  speci- 
men ;  but  I  suppose  you  don't  know  anything  about  ferns." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  very  little.  I  have  never  had  a  lesson 
since  that  picnic  in  the  Conneshaugh." 

Dorla  felt  his  eyes  upon  her  as  she  bent  over  the  press- 
ing board.  "  The  drive  to  Lorette  is  very  pretty,"  she  said  : 
'<  we  went  in  the  morning." 

Then  there  was  a  silence,  for  Felix  would  not  talk  about 
Lorette.  A  silence,  but  a  short  one,  for  the  door  burst 
open,  and  in  flashed  Abby,  who  fell  upon  Mrs.  Rothermel 
with  kisses. 

"  I  had  six  minutes  before  dinner,  and  I  ran  around  here 
to  tell  you  what  a  lovely  time  we've  had."  Then  she  gave 
a  start  and  said,  "  you  here !  "  when  she  caught  sight  of 
Felix. 

"  Yes,"  said  Felix  placidly  ;  and  the  sight  of  him  seemed 
to  take  away  her  exuberant  enjoyment. 

"  I  supposed  you  were  resting,  you  talked  so  much  about 
your  terrible  fatigue,"  she  said,  taking  her  arm  off  Dorla'a 
waist  and  turning  from  them. 

"  I  have  been  walking  about  an  hour  or  more  with  Mrs. 
Rothermel ;  I  found  being  in  a  civilized  place  rested  me 
immediately." 

Then  Dorla  felt  sure  he  was  playing  her  off  to  make  hi» 
young  victim  jealous,  and  she  began  to  freeze  at  once. 

'*  We  have  not  walked  very  much,"  she  said,  "  and  Mr, 
Varian  has  not  exerted  himself  much  in  the  matter  of  con- 
versation ;  I  think  that  he  has  rested." 

"  What  is  all  this  about  ?  "  thought  Felix,  puzzled  and  a 
little  angry.  For  though  he  was  very  quick  he  could  not 


A  PERFECT  AD01TI8.  319 

follow  the  delicate  intricacies  of  Dorla's  jealous  distrust.  II 
was  certainly  rather  hard  upon  him  ;  but  the  very  sight  of 
Abby's  shining  youthfulness,  and  the  confident  brusque- 
aess  of  her  manners,  changed  Dorla  instantly  into  coldnesi 
and  suspicion.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  do  right,  for 
Abby's  presence  in  itself  put  him  in  the  wrong.  And  Dorla, 
keenly  alive  to  her  own  errors,  knew  very  well  that  it  was 
BO,  but  felt  sure  she  could  not  help  it.  "  Now,  I  shall  have 
no  more  peace,"  she  sighed.  "  How  I  wish  the  girl  would 
go  away  and  leave  me  at  least  Quebec  !  I  do  not  care  whom 
she  takes  with  her,  I  only  do  not  want  to  see  her  and  be 
put  out  of  temper." 

The  ten  minutes  were  soon  up,  and  Abby  rose  to  go,  and 
Felix  rose  to  go  with  her.  Dorla  saw  them  walk  down  the 
street  together,  Abby  laughing  in  restored  good  humor, 
and  she  hated  herself  for  the  feelings  that  the  sight  engen- 
dered. After  dinner,  and  after  Missy's  prayers  were  said 
(no  inconsiderable  matter),  and  she  was  fast  asleep,  Mrs. 
Glover  and  Mrs.  Bishop  came  to  interrupt  Dorla's  quiet 
twilight  hour  by  the  open  window. 

11 1  thought  you  might  be  lonely,"  said  the  first  lady,  who 
never  permitted  herself  to  be  alone,  "  and  I  thought  we  had 
better  run  over  to  sit  awhile  with  you.  The  young  people 
are  gone  to  walk  on  the  terrace ;  and  we  will  have  a  quiet 
time  by  ourselves." 

The  mother  of  a  handsome  young  girl  is  willing  to  have  a 
great  many  quiet  times,  and  to  be  put  very  far  back  on  a 
very  high  shelf;  not  unfrequently,  she  classes  all  women 
out  of  girlhood  with  herself,  and  that  is  not  always  pleasant. 
That  Dorla  was  offended  was  certain,  but  Mrs.  Glover,  in 
the  magnitude  of  her  complacency,  did  not  find  it  out. 
After  Mrs.  Bishop  was  comforted  by  an  easy-chair  and  a 
footstool  and  the  closing  of  a  window,  Mrs.  Glover  said, 
"  Now,  I'm  sure  you  want  to  hear  all  about  our  journey  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorla  sweetly,  "  <*V  thai  I  haven't  heard  from 
Mr  Variiw  and  Abby  " 


320  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"Oh,  as  to  what  you  heard  from  them,"  cried  Mr*, 
Glover,  "  I  should  not  consider  it  very  worthy  of  belief.  They 
were  in  such  a  state,  laughing  at  everything  like  a  pair  o1 
children,  and  so  engaged  in  their  jokes  and  nonsense,  that  1 
do  not  believe  they  could  tell  a  thing  about  the  Sagurnaj 
without  looking  at  the  guide-books.  You  know  what  young 
people  are." 

*'  It  must  have  made  it  very  dull  for  you,"  said  Dorla 
politely. 

"  O,  you  know  we  must  get  used  to  that,"  returned  Mrs. 
Glover  laughing.  "  It  is  the  fate  of  mothers  to  be  put 
quite  aside.  You  will  find  that  out  when  Missy  comes 
upon  the  carpet." 

"  It  will  be  happily  some  years  yet,"  said  Dorla. 

"  The  years  go  by  quick  enough,"  answered  Mrs.  Glover, 
and  she  sighed  a  little.  "  It  seems  but  yesterday  since  Abby 
was  to  be  tucked  up  in  her  little  crib  at  night,  and  there 
was  an  end  of  bother  about  her  till  to-morrow  morning." 

Mrs.  Bishop  laughed.  "  That's  over,  sure  enough,"  she 
said,  "  and  you  may  consider  the  bother  has  but  begun.  Ab- 
by's  irrepressible.  I  don't  believe  you  will  have  much  peace 
till  she  has  settled  down  into  a  married  woman." 

Mrs.  Glover  and  Mrs.  Bishop  were  old  friends,  and  it  was 
quite  allowable  to  discuss  the  daughter  in  this  way,  provided 
always  the  faults  mentioned  were  of  an  engaging  nature. 

"  Abby  is  a  good  girl,"  said  the  mother,  "  but  she  is  so  full 
of  spirits,  it  is  really  a  hard  matter  to  control  her." 

"  What  can  you  expect  ?  "  returned  Mrs.  Bishop.  "  You 
and  Charles  have  always  let  her  have  her  own  way,  and  she 
is  cleverer  than  you  both,  you  know." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Mrs.  Glover  laughing. 

"  And  she  is  so  handsome,  sjie  will  always  find  plenty  of 
people  to  humor  her,  if  you  don't ;  so  you  had  better  make 
up  your  mind  to  letting  her  be  captain.  Nothing  will  be 
gained  by  disciplining  her  now  ;  you  ought  to  have  done  that 
j*p»rs  ago." 


A  PERFEC1  ADONIS. 

"  Mrs.  Bothermel,  she  is  reading  you  a  lesson  over  my 
ihoulder." 

«  Yes  ?     I  did  not  take  it  so." 

"  O,  no ;  I  give  my  lessons  to  Dorla  at  first  hand.  She 
is  spoiling  Missy.  She  knows  my  opinion  about  that.  But 
Missy  L  very  differeiie  from  Abby." 

"  In  age,"  said  Dorla  coldly. 

"  Yes,  of  course  in  age,  but  in  character,  in — in  circum- 
stances. Now  Abby,  with  such  remarkably  good  looks, 
ought  to  have  been  trained  with  more  than  usual  strictness. 
But  dear  me !  What's  the  use  of  talking  ?  I  never  knew  a 
mother  yet  that  had  a  particle  of  sense.  Dorla,  my  dear, 
those  tuberoses  are  giving  me  a  headache.  Will  you  put 
them  in  the  hall  till  I  go  away  ?  " 

When  Dorla  came  back  from  expatriating  the  tuberoses, 
she  found  them  still  on  the  same  subject.  Mrs.  Glover 
could  not  possibly  talk  of  anything  else. 

"  She  certainly  seems  to  have  made  a  good  beginning," 
Mrs.  Bishop  said  laughing.  "  Most  girls  would  have  opened 
the  campaign  with  a  college  boy  or  two.  But  she  has  flown 
at  the  higher  game  at  once.  She  couldn't  have  done  better. 
Felix  Varian  is  worth  an  effort." 

"  O,  Abby  doesn't  think  of  that.  She  is  only  taken  with 
his  good  looks.  She  is  too  thoughtless,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  II 
he  had  been  a  music  teacher,  it  would  have  been  the  same." 

"  Then  it's  lucky  he  isn't  a  music  teacher." 

"  Absurd,  all  this.  You're  talking  as  if  it  were  a  serious 
matter."  (Mrs.  Glover  longed  to  be  assured  that  it  was  a 
serious  matter.) 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  of  course  no  one  can  say  as  yet.  But 
I  must  confess  I  think  ho  seems  to  be  unusually  absorbed." 

"  Men  of  the  world  like  Mr.  Varian  are  apt  to  be  taken 
with  very  young,  fresh  girls,"  said  the  mother  modestly 
"  It  isn't  anything  about  Abby  that  is  different  from  others, 
but  she  is  so  fresa  and  full  of  life.  She  really  makes  you 
forget  that  you've  ever  been  bored  or  worried." 


822  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"Well,  we'll  see,  we'll  see,"  s«id  Mrs.  Bishop.  "Tliej 
might  both  do  w^rse.  Abby's  a  good  girl  at  heart,  andshe'i 
handsome  enough  to  satisfy  an}  body.  And  Felix  has  got 
more  money  than  he  knows  what  to  do  with,  and  an  old 
name,  and  a  handsome  face.  And  I  suppose  he  is  no  better 
and  no  worse  than  most  men  of  his  age.  Altogether,  I  should 
let  things  take  their  course  if  I  were  you." 

"  O,  as  to  that,"  cried  Mrs.  Glover,  with  an  honest  little 
laugh,  "  I  am  very  willing  to  let  things  take  their  course. 
I  am  not  such  a  hypocrite  as  to  say  that  I  should  not  be 
pleased." 

Then  she  began  to  be  ashamed  of  herself,  and  a  little 
frightened,  perhaps,  by  Dorla's  silence.  So  she  hastened  to 
exclaim,  "  But  bah !  What  nonsense  !  When  he,  they  I 
mean — may  never  have  thought  of  such  a  thing.  Mothers 
will  be  mothers.  If  a  man  looks  at  your  girl,  you  begin  to 
wonder  whether  he  is  to  be  your  son-in-law.  I  began  my 
speculations  before  Abby  wore  long  dresses.  I  have  no 
doubt,  Mrs.  Rothermel,  you  have  had  your  apprehensions 
about  Missy  for  a  year  or  two." 

<;  No,",  said  Dorla  calmly,  "  I  do  not  remember  any." 

11 0,  don't  take  it  seriously,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Glover  quite 
uneasy.  "  Really  you  know,  we  have  only  been  joking  about 
the  whole  matter.  I  hope — that  is — I  believe  you  haven't 
any  dislike  for  Mr.  Varian  ?  I  notice  you  do  not  talk  very 
much  with  him.  And  I  think  he  told  me  that  he  used  to 
know  you.  It  was  rather  awkward,  forcing  him  upon  the 
party  so.  But  Abby  is  so  impulsive.  It  was  all  done  be- 
fore I  thought  much  about  it,  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  I  am  sure,"  returned  Dorla,  frightened  in  her  turn,  "  it 
san't  be  anything  but  a  pleasure  to  have  Mr.  Varian.  He 
is  so  good  a  ^raveller  and  so  entertaining.  It  is  a  good  many 
pears  since  I  have  seen  him,  but  I  never  should  feel  as  if  h« 
vcre  a  stranger,  I  knew  his  mother  and  his  sister  so  welL" 

It  was  Mrs.  Bishop's  turn  to  be  uneasj  now.  Somehow 
*he  did  not  like  the  feeling  she  detected  in  Dorla's  voice. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  f  323 

She  began  to  tremble  for  her  beloved  Henry.  She  felt  it  in 
her  heart  to  hate  Felix,  who  had  come  in  to  spoil  the  little 
family  arrangement,  upon  which  she  had  spent  so  much  ex- 
ertion. So  she  said,  like  a  wily  old  diplomat : 

"  Why,  no  ;  nobody  can  have  any  objection  to  Felix  Va- 
rian.  I  never  heard  anything  against  him  in  my  life,  except, 
it  may  be,  some  angry  speeches  from  girls  he  had  flirted  with ; 
one  can't  blame  him  for  that.  I  truly  hope  he  has  got  tired 
of  flirting,  and  may  make  up  his  miud  to  be  very  much  in 
love  with  Abb}'." 

"  That  would  certainly  make  him  a  very  much  pleasanter 
travelling  companion,"  said  Dorla,  with  a  careless  laugh. 
She  was  quite  on  the  defence  now,  and  began  to  take  an 
active  part  in  what  was  said.  She  was  quite  vivacious  for 
the  remainclei  of  the  evening.  About  ten  o'clock  the  faith- 
ful Henry  came  to  take  the  two  ladies  home.  She  was  quite 
unkind  to  him,  and  the  poor  fellow  went  away  with  a  woun- 
ded spirit. 

"  Where  did  you  leave  my  daughter,  pray  ?  "  Dorla  heard 
Mrs.  Glover  say  as  soon  as  they  got  out  into  the  hall. 

She  did  not  hear  the  answer.  She  went  back  into  the 
room,  and  shut  and  bolted  the  door,  and  opened  wide  the 
windows  to  the  summer  night.  As  little  of  her  kind,  and  as 
much  of  air  and  stars  and  sky  as  she  could  get.  She  sat 
silent  and  absorbed,  gazing  out  into  the  star-specked  dark- 
ness, for  an  hour.  Then  Missy  moaned  and  moved  in  an 
adjoining  room,  and  the  re  very  was  at  an  end. 

Since  Mrs.  Glover  had  observed  that  she  avoided  Mr. 
Varian,  and  since  Mrs.  Bishop  had  so  unnecessarily  given  ii 
as  a  part  of  her  experience  that  no  one  ever  did  avoid  him, 
except  those  with  whom  he  had  once  flirted,  there  was  no 
Bourse  for  her  but  to  make  it  very  apparent  that  she  did  not 
&void  him.  At  an  early  hour  next  morning,  the  humble  and 
.  harassed  Henry  came  to  know  if  she  would  take  a  walk. 
They  were  all  going  to  take  a  walk,  even  Mrs.  Bishop. 
With  alacrity,  Dorla  said  that  she  would  go,  though  she  Lad 


324  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

been  secretly  hurrying  Missy's  breakfast  in  the  hope  thai 
she  could  get  away  before  any  "  party  "  plans  were  forced 
upon  her.  At  the  corner  they  were  met  by  the  two  old 
ladies ;  in  the  distance  were  Abby  and  Felix  lounging  at  a 
shop  door. 

"  This  way,"  signalled  Abby,  and  led  the  way.  It  WAS 
quite  natural  that  she  should  choose  the  walk,  and  that  they 
all  should  follow.  Nobody  objected  but  Dorla.  She  had  to 
be  silent,  but  every  step  after  the  gay,  flaunting  figure  in 
advance,  was  a  bitter  penanpe  to  her.  Mrs.  Glover  and  Mrs. 
Bishop  fell  gossiping  and  mumbling  to  the  rear.  Henry, 
with  Missy  by  the  hand,  followed  Dorla,  at  her  side  when  the 
exigencies  of  the  march  permitted,  and  the  width  of  the  side- 
walk, but  always  very  near.  It  was  a  cold,  bright  day,  the 
wind  keen,  the  sky  cloudless  and  very  brilliantly  blue. 

"  I'm  cold,"  said  Missy  shivering,  and  Henry  stooped  and 
tied  his  handkerchief  around  her  throat,  and  Dorla  looked 
anxiously  to  the  buttons  of  her  stout  little  walking  jacket. 

"  Let  us  have  a  race,  and  that  will  warm  you,"  said  the 
unselfish  guardian.  So  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact  that 
he  did  not  appear  to  advantage  on  a  jog  trot,  he  started  off 
at  this  pace  to  match  Missy's  feeble  run.  Dorla  felt  herself 
crimsoning  with  vexation,  when  Felix  and  Abby  turned  and 
watched  them.  Finally  the  race  ended  by  a  return  to 
c<  mamma,"  who  was  the  stake  or  goal.  It  had  had  the  ef- 
fect of  putting  a  little  tinge  of  color  on  Missy's  cheeks,  but 
her  retrousse  nose  was  still  blue  with  the  cold. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Dorla  ungraciously,  stung  by  seeing 
that  her  darling  was  not  beautiful,  and  that  the  man  she 
wanted  to  like  was  making  himself  absurd. 

"  I  thought  it  would  do  her  good,"  said  Henry  apologeti- 
cally. 

"  T  have  no  doubt  it  has,"  returned  Dorla,  moving  for- 
ward, "  but  I  do  not  want  her  to  be  tired,  and  we  may 
have  to  walk  a  long  way ;  Miss  Glover  has  not  told  us." 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  325 

They  were  not  within  speech  of  the  two  leaders  yet,  who 
were  nearly  a  square  in  front  of  them. 

"  It  is  thoughtless  of  Miss  Abby,"  said  Henry,  seeking 
for  some  excuse  for  his  sovereign's  ungraciousness.  "  I  will 
go  and  ask  where  they  are  going,  and  why  they  walk  so  fast.'1 

"  If  you  please  not,"  exclaimed  Dorla  almost  with  impa- 
tience. Then  Henry  sighed,  and  walked  after  her  humbly, 
and  thought  her  more  beautiful  than  ever.  A  great  Cana- 
dian with  red  whiskers  who  passed  them  evidently  thought 
so  too,  for  he  turned  and  looked  after  them  with  great  sim- 
plicity. She  had  never  given  up  wearing  black;  greys, 
lavenders,  and  pearl  were  the  amelioration.  This  day 
she  was  all  in  black,  black  silk,  velvet,  embroidered  cash- 
mere and  lace,  all  in  graceful  sweep  about  her,  and  her  hat, 
with  its  velvet  band  and  long  black  feather,  gave  her  quite 
a  regal  air.  Presently  Abby  and  Felix  paused  and  waited 
for  them  to  come  up. 

"  How  slowly  you  walk,"  cried  Abby,  as  they  joined  them. 
"  Is  it  to  be  queenly,  or  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  to  tire  Missy,  I  believe,"  said  Dorla  calmly, 
looking  at  her.  Dorla  was  taller  than  Abby,  and  that  an- 
noyed Abby,  who  was  used  to  being  the  tallest  among  her 
companions. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  freeze,  creeping  so,"  she  said. 

•'  It  is  chilly,"  returned  Dorla  simply.  All  this  time 
Felix  had  not  spoken,  but  had  been  looking  at  her.  Now 
he  moved  to  her  side. 

"What  are  we  going  to  see  ?"  she  said,  not  waitir;.,  for 
him  to  speak.  t(  I  hope  we  are  not  wasting  our  tir^e." 

"  O  no,  this  is  to  see  a  sight,"  he  answered.  "  I  supposed 
that  you  all  knew  you  were  doing  your  duty  by  history." 

"  This  does  not  look  like  history,"  said  Abby,  going  to- 
wards the  door  of  a  little  old  wooden  house,  with  a  window 
pn  each  side  of  the  door,  and  in  the  steep  roof  two  dormer 
windows,  that  opened  like  casements.  It  was  built  between 
%  house  of  stone  and  one  of  brick,  both  looking  very  high. 


B26  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

because  it  was  so  low;  but  neither  of  them  modern,  (ai 
nothing  is  in  Quebec.)  In  one  of  the  windows  of  the  little 
old  house,  was  a  small  display  of  cakes  and  apples ;  across 
the  other  a  curtain  was  drawn,  as  if  private  life  and  public 
were  divided  by  the  door. 

"  But  may  I  ask,"  said  Mrs.  Rothermel,  while  Abby 
knocked,  "  what  makes  this  old  house  of  more  interest  than 
all  the  others?" 

"  O,  don't  you  know  ?  "  cried  Abby ;  "  why,  it's  the  house 
where  Montgomery's  body  was  laid  out." 

Then  Dorla's  face  took  a  strange,  wistful  look,  as  she 
gazed  at  it,  without  speaking,  while  Henry  and  Abby  in 
turn  thumped  upon  the  door. 

Missy  pulled  her  mother's  dress,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  What  is  what  ?  "  said  her  mother,  absently,  still  looking 
at  the  house  as  if  she  saw  the  forlorn  procession  of  that  De- 
cember night  filing  through  the  narrow  doorway,  with  its 
stark  and  silent  hero  borne  feet  foremost  by  worn  and 
gloomy  men  from  the  "  lost  battle." 

"  What  does  she  mean — what  is  it  to  be  laid  out  ?  "  fret- 
ted Missy,  in  awe  of  a  mystery,  and  in  anger  at  a  want  of 
attention. 

Abby,  who  had  stopped  shaking  the  door,  heard  her  shrill 
whisper,  which  was  not  meant  to  be  heard  but  by  her  mother, 
and  exclaimed  with  a  little  laugh,  (f  To  be  laid  out  is  to 
be  a  cold  corpus,  and  to  have  no  voice  in  the  arrangement  of 
your  last  grand  toilet." 

Dorla  shuddered.  The  laying  out  of  dead  bodies  sug- 
gested more  to  her  than  it  did  to  the  speaker,  possibly. 
Missy  whimpered  and  began  to  twitch  at  her  mother's  hand 
io  a  way  that  foreshadowed  a  scene.  She  was  nervously 
afraid  of  everything  connected  with  death,  and  wilfully  op- 
posed to  having  her  questions  made  light  of.  So  her  mother, 
with  patient  care,  began  in  a  low  voice  to  explain  to  her 
about  the  attack  and  its  failure,  and  the  death  of  ttanera* 
Montgomery. 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  327 

"But  what  did  they  bring  him  here  for?"  persisted  the 
child,  morbidly  bent  on  hearing  details. 

"To — to  wash  his  wounds,  and  change  his  clothes,  and 
make  his  poor  body  ready  for  the  grave,  Missy,"  said  her 
mother  in  a  low  voice. 

"  What  good  would  that  do  ?  "  said  Missy,  beginning  ta 
cry,  and  kick.  Her  sensitiveness  had  this  unpleasant  man- 
ner of  expressing  itself.  This  new  and  terrible  subject  had 
overwhelmed  her,  and  she  was  in  a  rage  of  nervous  shame  at 
being  seen  and  laughed  at.  Henry,  who  hurried  to  her,  was 
driven  off  with  the  announcement  that  she  hated  him.  She 
even  included  her  mother  in  this  condemnation.  Dorla 
sighed  and  attempted  no  pacification.  It  is  needless  to  say 
she  wished  that  they  had  stayed  at  home.  The  storm  would 
perhaps  soon  spend  itself ;  but  her  comfort  was  at  an  end. 
(Though,  to  be  sure,  she  hadn't  been  too  comfortable  be- 
fore.) It  was  impossible  to  attempt  to  explain  or  excuse  the 
child  to  such  an  audience.  She  even  saw,  or  thought  she 
Raw,  a  merry,  meaning  look  of  derision  pass  between  Abby 
rtnd  Felix  ;  whose  attention  however  was  happily  diverted  by 
the  opening  of  the  door  by  a  small  Irish  boy.  She  kept 
Missy  quietly  by  the  hand  till  they  reached  the  threshold  ; 
farther  than  that,  Missy  refused  to  go.  Abby  was  in  the 
advance.  From  the  room  where  the  curtain  hung,  came  an 
old  Irish  woman  in  a  cap.  She  proceeded  to  cross  the  room, 
and  install  herself  behind  a  little  counter;  probably  with 
the  intention  of  being  official.  The  intruders  took  but  little 
notice  of  her,  but  gazed  about  the  little,  low,  dark  room, 
which  they  almost  filled. 

"  And  this,"  said  Abby,  glancing  about  her  with  a  mo- 
mentary thoughtfulness,  "  is  where  poor  Montgomery  was 
Drought  I  " 

"  No,"  said  the  woman,  with  emphasis,  "  it  isn't  the  room 
rt  all.  It's  another  room  entirely.  And  we've  made  np 
our  minis,"  she  went  on,  taking  an  attitude  of  great  resolu 


328  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

fcion,  "  we've  made  up  our  minds  that  the  gentry  must  pay 
ben  cents,  if  they  want  to  see  the  room." 

Abby  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  walked  towards  the  door. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  this  is  extortion." 

"  If  it's  worth  seeing  at  all,  it's  worth  ten  cents,"  said  the 
woman,  angrily. 

"  I  consider  that  we  have  seen  it,"  returned  Abby,  going 
out,  followed  by  all  but  Dorla.  "  There  is  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  he  was  laid  out  in  this  very  room.  In  fact,  I 
don't  believe  there  is  any  other  room  in  the  house.  Good- 
bye." 

And  the  young  lady  made  her  a  very  absurd  salutation  as 
she  stepped  into  the  street.  Henry,  engaged  in  the  pacifica- 
tion of  Missy,  stood  outside.  Felix,  on  the  threshold, 
awaited  Mrs.  Rothermel,  who  walked  up  to  the  little  coun- 
ter, and  laying  down  some  small  Canadian  coin,  said,  civilly, 

"  I  am  sorry  we  intruded.     I  am  much  obliged  to  you." 

Then  the  tide  set  in  the  opposite  direction.  With  profuse, 
Irish  gratitude,  she  implored  Dorla  to  stay  and  see  the  room. 
But  Dorla  had  got  enough  of  it ;  between  Missy,  Abby  and 
the  Irish  woman,  she  felt  as  if  her  poor  little  bit  of  senti- 
ment had  been  quite  crushed  out ;  and  she  stepped  upon  the 
pavement  with  a  sensation  of  relief. 

Abby  was  so  diverted  by  the  occurrence  that  she  said  a 
dozen  tolerably  good  things,  and  laughed  at  them  and  made 
Felix  laugh  so  much  that  the  few  passers-by  turned  to  look 
at  them  in  amazement.  This  time  Dorla  took  the  lead,  for 
she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  that  she  was  going  home — • 
Felix  and  Abby  followed  close  behind.  About  half  a  square 
off,  they  met  Mrs.  Bishop  and  Mrs.  Glover,  who  stopped 
them  to  hear  particulars,  and  insisted  upon  going  on. 

"  Why,  yes,  you  can  go  in  and  see  all  Mrs.  Rothermel'i 
money's  worth,"  said  Abby.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  il  en- 
titled  you  to  spend  the  morning  there,  she  was  so  lavish, 
Shall  we  come  back  for  you  about  four  o'clock  ?  " 

'*  Nonsense,  Abby,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  must  comt 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  329 

bock  with  us  now ;  it  will  serve  you  right  for  leaving  us  so 
far  behind." 

"  Indeed  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  At  this  rate  we  shan't 
»ee  anything  to-day ;  the  morning  is  half  gone  already.  We 
are  going  to  the  Ursulines  now ;  and  you  can  come  after  us, 
or  you  can  give  up  going  to  see  the  trumpery  old  place." 

"  We  don't  know  the  way  to  the  Ursulines,  and  it  will 
not  take  you  five  minutes  to  walk  back." 

"  Five  minutes !  You  will  be  twenty  minutes  mooning 
about  the  old  shanty,  asking  questions ;  and  we  haven't  got 
the  time.  Come,  Mr.  Varian." 

Missy  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  amazement,  as 
Abby,  putting  her  hand  in  Mr.  Varian's  arm,  moved  away 
with  resolution. 

"  You're  a  self-willed  girl,"  said  her  mother,  forgetting 
diplomacy  in  anger  as  she  turned  to  follow. 

"  I  will  go  back  with  you.  I  don't  care  for  th«  Ursulines 
fo-day,"  said  Dorla. 

"  No,"  returned  Mrs.  Glover,  hardly  grateful.  "  It  is  best 
not  to  break  up  the  party." 

"  Henry,  dear,  you  must  give  me  your  arm,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Bishop,  very  tired  and  not  much  pleased  with  the  little  family 
scene, 

At  the  corner,  Dorla  said,  in  dread  of  having  the  Chapel 
of  the  Ursulines  desecrated  by  such  associations,  "  I  think  I 
irill  leave  you  now,  and  take  Missy  home." 

Thereupon  Missy  cried  and  insisted  upon  not  being  taken 
home.  And  the  general  clamor  was  too  much  for  Dorla, 
who  yielded  and  went  on.  Abby  was  by  this  time  out  oi 
sight,  around  the  corner  of  Parloir  Street,  down  which  they 
followed  her.  Before  they  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the 
Convent,  Felix  met  them,  saying  the  Chapel  door  was 
opened  by  some  visitors  coming  out,  and  they  could  enter  at 
»nce. 

"  What  is  it  particularly  about  the  Ursulines'  Chapel  ?  * 
%sked  Mrs.  Glover,  who,  in  a  sort  of  mother-in-law  appropri« 


830  -4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

ation,  joined  herself  to  Felix.  She  had  got  over  her  rage  at 
Abby,  and  thought  her  a  clever  creature  for  getting  her  own 
way  and  making  a  conquest  of  Felix.  Fejix  for  his  part  was 
not  actively  attentive  to  Mrs.  Glover ;  perhaps  that  grati- 
fied her,  as  being  son-in-law-ish.  She  took  his  arm  coming 
down  the  narrow  street. 

"  The  ridiculous  old  place,"  she  said,  as  he  had  to  walk  in 
fche  middle  of  the  street,  or  near  it,  to  give  her  the  benefit  of 
the  sidewalk. 

"  Well,  what  have  we  got  to  go  to  this  chapel  about  ?  "  she 
reiterated. 

"  Why,  to  see  Miss  Abby,  who  is  waiting  for  us  there." 

"  O,  absurd,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  what  is  there  to  see, 
or  hear  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  is  to  see,  several  passable  pictures,  and 
much  curious  old  gilding  and  decoration." 

"  O,  but  I  thought  there  was  something  remarkable — 
something  historic,  and  all  that." 

"  WV1],  if  you  put  any  historic  value  on  poor  defeated 
Mo?itcalm's  bones." 

"  O,"  cried  Mrs.  Glover  all  afire,  "  why,  of  course.  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  the  world." 

Then  Missy,  who  always  heard  what  was  unprofitable  for 
her  to  hear,  was  thrown  into  great  agitation  by  the  prospect 
of  more  mortuary  details.  Her  little  face  was  puckered  into 
anxious  distortion.  As  they  entered  the  chapel  door,  a 
shiver  ran  through  the  hand  her  mother  held.  She  had  in- 
tense feeling  for  chapels  and  churches,  and  always  came  out 
of  them  so  overstrained  as  to  be  detestable. 

"  Missy,  you  are  tired ;  we  had  better  go  back. "  But  Miss> 
pushed  her  way  into  the  door,  and  dragged  at  her  mother's 
band. 

In  the  chapel  they  were  met  by  Abby,  accompanied  by  two 
young  pupils  of  the  pension.  They  had  just  bid  adieu  to 
Borne  friends  who  had  gone  out  the  door,  an$  were  very  glad 
of  *he  presence  of  a  few  strangers  to  break  the  monotony  ol 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  331 

shcir  long  vacation  days.  One  was  a  pretty,  red-jheeked 
English  Canadian,  the  other  a  ve:y  plain  young  French  girl 
Each  had  about  two  yards  of  black  lace  like  a  veil  or  scari 
over  her  head.  One  was  a  Protestant,  the  other  a  Catholic. 
Neither  showed  much  reverence  or  devotional  feeling,  but 
both  were  well-behaved  and  modest.  Abby  fraternized  with 
the  English  girl  at  once,  and  with  eager  curiosity  drew  her 
about  from  one  spot  to  another.  Henry,  with  Mrs.  Bishop 
leaning  heavily  on  his  arm,  walked  business-like  down  the 
aisle,  as  if  they  were  going  to  hail  an  omnibus,  or  put  a  let- 
ter in  the  Post  Office.  Mrs.  Glover,  who  had  seized  the 
young  French  girl,  was  making  discoveries  and  inquiries  in 
a  very  naive  manner.  She  made  many  shrill  exclamations 
of  wonder,  and  went  from  one  picture  to  another  more  rap- 
idly than  was  consistent  with  much  appreciation.  Felix  from 
some  reason  kept  aloof  from  the  rest,  remaining  near  the  en- 
trance. Dorla  sank  into  a  seat,  and  holding  Missy  beside  her 
pointed  to  the  tablet  in  the  wall,  "  Honneur  a  Montcalm !  " 
and  made  her  translate  the  sentence,  hoping  to  divert  her 
horror-struck  attention  from  Abby.  But  this  was  in  vain. 
History  was  little  to  Missy,  and  church  was  much.  She  was 
very  simple  and  sincere  in  her  own  devotion,  and  Abby's 
conduct  filled  her  with  amazement. 

11  What  is  she  going  to  do  now  ?  "  she  said  in  a  shrill  whis- 
per, as  Abby  ran  up  the  altar  steps,  followed  by  the  Cana- 
dian at  a  little  distance,  who,  with  a  mechanical  and  unmean- 
ing reverence  as  she  passed  in  front  of  the  altar,  answered 
her  questions  in  a  common  conversational  tone.  "  Is  she 
wicked  ?  "  said  Missy,  coming  to  the  point  at  once. 

"  1  should  not  like  you  to  do  so,  Missy." 

"  But  is  she  wicked  ?  "  reiterated  Missy. 

That  was  an  unpleasant  habit  of  mind  with  Missy.  She 
reached  her  point  without  circumlocution,  and  she  insisted 
upon  having  it  settled.  Her  mother  was  inclined  to  be 
rague  from  motives  of  charity  and  goc  d-breeding,  but  thii 
always  enraged  her. 


832  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

M  Is  she  wicked?  "  she  cried,  twitching  hex  mother's  hand, 
with  her  light  eyes  dilated,  and  her  face  white.  Missy's 
faith  was  a  very  real  one,  and  it  was  suffering  a  sharp  trial 
at  the  moment. 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  her  mother,  rising  hastily. 

"  I  won't,"  cried  Missy,  pulling  away  her  hand.  There- 
upon Dorla  secured  the  other  hand,  and  half  dragged  her  to 
the  door. 

11  You  are  all  of  you  wicked  together,"  cried  Missy,  burst- 
ing into  passionate  tears,  as  her  mother  led  her  out  into  the 
street. 

"  I  don't  know  any  one  more  wicked  than  you,  speak- 
ing to  your  mother  in  that  way,  and  acting  so  in  a 
church." 

That  sent  her  off  into  a  rage  of  crying ;  it  was  a  real  stab 
to  her  unhappy  little  conscience,  and  Dorla  was  sorry  she 
had  said  it  when  too  late.  Felix  followed  them. 

"  Can  I  go  home  with  you  ? "  he  said.  His  presence 
seemed  to  add  fuel  to  the  flame.  She  showed  herself  a  little 
vixen,  pushing  her  mother  away  from  her,  stamping  with  her 
feet,  and  screaming  with  rage.  Dorla  tried  to  ignore  it, 
leaving  her  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  walking 
on  quietly  with  Felix.  Missy  would  have  stayed  there  till 
Christmas.  As  they  reached  the  corner  of  the  street  she  said, 
turning  back : 

"  I  will  leave  you.     Come  to  me  at  once." 

"  Not  till  he  g ^es  away,"  cried  Missy,  frantically.  Then 
l)orla,  with  wretchedness  in  her  face,  said  to  him  in  a  lo"w 
voice,  not  looking  at  him  for  very  shame  : 

"  Please  go  away.  I  can  manage  her  best  alone." 
,  Felix  bit  his  lips,  lifted  his  hat  coldly  and  walked  away, 
not  going  back  to  the  chapel,  nor  giving  a  second  glance 
towards  the  miserable  child  in  her  fury.  (t  Friend  Stanfield's 
joy  will  not  be  unalloyed,"  he  said  to  himself  derisively,  as 
he  joined  a  newly  arrived  friend  on  the  steps  of  the  St.  Louis. 
A.8  to  Dorla,  who  can  say  how  bitter  that  whole  morning 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  333 

had  been.  These  contests  with  Missy  were  wearing  enough 
when  she  was  alone  with  her ;  now  she  had  the  sharp  morti- 
fication of  knowing  that  mother  and  child  were  both  criti- 
cised and  condemned.  And  not  without  justice.  Dorla  felt 
herself  a  failure.  Surely  Missy  could  not  have  been  what 
she  was,  if  there  had  not  been  some  fault  in  hei  training. 
"Not  one  fauU,  but  a  thousand,"  cried  poor  Dorla  in  her 
self-accusation. 

An  hour  later,  Missy,  forgiven,  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep, 
holding  fast  both  her  mother's  hands.  Her  mother,  with 
tear-stained  face  and  eyes  no  prettier  than  eyes  are  apt  to 
be  after  crying,  sat  motionless  beside  her  for  an  hour,  full  of 
biting  self-contempt.  The  unfortunate  outburst  had  made 
the  child  almost  ill.  She  awoke  peevish  and  unstrung,  and 
could  not  eat  her  dinner.  That  put  the  mother  in  a  state  of 
anxiety  and  restlessness.  And  so  they  managed  to  make 
themselves  very  miserable. 

Some  beautiful  days  followed  this ;  on  one  of  them,  Missy 
in  a  caleche  with  Henry  Stanfield,  and  Dorla,  Mrs.  Glover, 
Abby,  and  Felix  in  a  barouche,  went  out  at  Palace  Gate, 
with  the  Falls  of  Montmorenci  as  a  destination.  Mrs. 
Bishop  was  left  at  home. 

"It  was  an  anniversary  or  something,"  Abby  said,  and 
she  didn't  see  why  there  need  be  anniversaries.  Old  women 
were  tiresome  enough  without  that.  For  her  part,  she  meant 
to  be  jolly  when  she  was  an  old  woman.  People  lived  twice 
as  long  if  they  were  jolly. 

"  That  might  be  a  reason  for  not  being  jolly,"  Felix  said, 
who  occasionally  became  a  little  cynical  (whenever  he  had 
a  quarrel  with  Abby,  Mrs.  Glover  had  told  Dorla). 

"  At  any  rate,  they  make  themselves  less  of  a  nuisance  to 
their  neighbors.  Whatever  happens  to  me,  I  shall  not  shut 
cayself  up  in  my  room  every  few  days,  because  it  is  an  anni- 
versary, and  cry  over  something  in  a  locket." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  not,"  said  Dorla,  quietly. 

"  Nonsense,  Abby,"  said  Mrs.   Glover,  uneasily.     M  You 


334  4  PERFEOT  ADONIS. 

will  be  as  broken-hearted  as  anybody  when  year  time 
comes." 

"  I !  Broken-hearted !  "  and  Abby  laughed  a  gay  laagh ; 
there  was  no  past  for  her,  no  anniversaries  and  no  regrets. 
She  '  felt  her  life  in  every  limb ' ;  even  Dorla,  who  did  not 
love  her,  looked  for  a  moment  with  admiration  on  the  fresh 
and  unstained  beauty  of  her  face.  She  saw  Felix  looking  at 
her  too.  No  wonder  ;  she  could  almost  excuse  him. 

The  day  was  bright  and  cool ;  the  sort  of  day  that  you 
drive  in  an  open  carriage  with  the  top  down.  Dorla  leaned 
back  in  her  seat,  with  a  parasol  over  her  head,  but  more  to 
keep  off  the  eyes  of  Felix  and  Abby  opposite,  than  the  sun. 
It  was  four  o'clock. 

"  This  is  neither  entertaining,  nor  instructive,"  said  Abby, 
who  was  perfectly  happy,  but  ready  to  deny  it.  "  We  ought 
to  know  the  objects  of  interest  that  we  pass.  Here  is  a  great 
edifice  on  our  right.  Hasn't  anybody  a  guide  book,  or 
doesn't  anybody  remember  ?  " 

"  I  don't,"  said*  .tfelix,  "  though  I  came  here  once  before." 

"  Was  it  on  the  occasion  of  an  anniversary  ?  "  said  Abby. 
*  For  the  recollection  of  it  seems  to  make  you  very  glum." 

"  No,  I  hadn't  begun  the  anniversary  business  then." 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,  do  tell  me,  did  you  know  Mr.  Yarian 
then  ?  I've  the  greatest  curiosity  to  know  what  there  was 
about  that  journey  to  Canada.  He  was  here,  but  he  doesn't 
remember  anything  about  it,  and  he  never  seems  to  want  to 
talk  about  it." 

"  Abby  !  that's  impertinent." 

"  Hush,  mamma  !  tell  me,  Mrs.  Rofchermel." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  to  tell  you,"  said  Dorla,  faintly. 

((  Perhaps  I  didn't  ask  questions  enough,  nor  buy  guide 
books  enough,"  said  Felix,  steadily.  "  Don't  let  us  fall  into 
tl»e  same  error  again.  Let  us  ask  Jehu  what  the  building 
fc." 

The  driver  was  an  Irish  boy  of  fourteen,  who  wore  a 
black  and  white  check  coat  ard  a  low  cap,  and  who  talked 


A  PERFECT  ADONI8.  835 

without  turning  his  head.     Nobody  could  understand  a  word 
he  said. 

"  The  stupidity  of  getting  such  a  creature  !  "  cried  Abby, 
who  seemed  to  think,  as  he  spoke  Irish,  he  could  not  under- 
stand English.  "  That  was  one  of  Mr.  Stanfield's  blunders." 

"  You  didn't  like  the  Frenchman  he  got  yesterday,"  re- 
turned Dorla,  with  an  instinct  of  defence. 

"  No ;  because  he  spoke  such  beastly  French,  and  so  fast 
no  one  could  understand  him.  I  suppose  there  are  coachmen 
in  Quebec  who  can  make  themselves  understood  in  some 
modern  language." 

"  Miss  Abby,"  said  Felix,  who  did  not  see  the  necessity 
of  defending  the  absent  in  all  cases.     "  ./will  engage  your, 
coachman  to-morrow,  and  we  will  go  with  him  in  a  caleche 
you  and  I,  and  study  every  inch  of  the  ground  that  we  pass 
over." 

Abby's  face  glowed  with  pleasure,  but  she  tried  not  to 
betray  it. 

.  t(  That  will  be  very  nice,"  she  said,  "  but  it  won't  console 
me  for  not  knowing  what  that  great  grim  building  is." 

"  Let  us  try  him  again.  Stop  a  moment,  Patrick.  What 
did  you  say  that  building  was  ?  " 

"  It's  a  'sylum,"  said  Patrick,  slacking  up ;  (he  drove  very 
fast  and  his  horses  were  white  with  foam.) 

"  What  kind  of  an  asylum  ?  " 

Patrick  hunted  for  the  word  a  moment,  then  gave  it  up. 
w  For  the  people  that's  bad  in  their  heads,"  he  said,  and 
then  turned  back  to  the  horses  and  drove  on  more  slowly. 

Abby  burst  into  a  merry  laugh.  "  The  people  that's  bad 
in  their  heads !  "  she  echoed.  "  I  think  there  must  be  '  • 
many '  of  them  to  nil  such  a  palatial  residence.  Look  at 
that  old  woman  cm  troisieme  waving  her  handkerchief  to  us. 
And  see  those  two  workmen  on  ladders,  busy  at  the  grat- 
ings. What  fun  to  go  in,  if  we  had  only  time  enough !" 

Dorla's  face  grew  pained,  and  she  turned  from  the  sight 
There  had  been  a  few  hours  in  her  life  when  mental  pain 


836  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

and  physical  prostration  had  come  upon  her  together ;  and 
she  had  had  a  dim  and  faint  perception  of  the  tortures  of  a 
brain  rerging  to  its  final  wreck.  The  thought  of 

44  Those  cells  where  fettered  spirits  moan  and  pine, 
Where  madness  shakes  its  chain," 

took  from  her  for  the  moment  all  joy  in  health  and  freedom, 
and  made  the  brilliant  sunshine  misery.  For  Abby,  healthy 
child,  it  was  only  another  form  of  entertainment,  a  novelty 
that  struck  no  exposed  and  sensitive  remembrance. 

If  anything  could  wash  out  the  recollection  of  such  a 
drear  abode,  it  would  be  the  charming  little  French  village 
into  which  they  drove.  The  quaint  houses  stand  with  their 
faces  turned  away  from  the  street,  and  trimness,  and  small 
thrift  and  humble  content  abide  beside  every  threshold. 
Surely  Beauport  Asylum  is  not  recruited  from  Beauport 
village. 

"  The  prettiness  of  it ! "  cried  Dorla,  leaning  forward. 
"  There  isn't  a  house  that  1  wouldn't  be  glad  to  live  in !  " 

"  I  confess  that  I  should  have  a  choice,"  said  Felix. 
"  There,  for  instance,  that  shop  with  the  paper  shades  simu- 
lating lace  doesn't  look  inviting." 

"  But  I  didn't  say  anything  about  a  shop." 

"  It  is  all  the  same  thing  in  Beauport." 

"  And  oh !  the  delight  of  that  old  two- wheeled  cart !  * 

"  Which  is  entirely  new." 

"  And  the  women  sitting  at  the  windows  with  their  knit- 
ting. How  quiet  and  afternoonish !  Nobody  looks  tired, 
and  everybody  is  clean.  See,  see  that  bit  of  coloring !  Tell 
Patrick  to  drive  slow." 

Patrick  consented  to  drive  slow,  past  a  house  which  might 
have  been  built  in  Normandy.  The  casements  were  all  wide 
open,  and  the  passers-by  could  see  into  the  barely  furnished 
but  cheerful  room,  where  a  tidy  young  woman  in  petticoat 
*nd  short-gown  moved  about  the  great  stove  set  in  the  wall 
At  thv,  shaded  doorstep  sat  an  old  woman  in  a  white  cap 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  337 

Mid  at  her  feet  played  a  child  in  a  red  dress,  with  round 
brown  head  and  black  eyes.  A  cat  slept  on  the  stone  The 
old  woman's  knitting  needles  moved  monotonously. 

"  I  think  they  are  happy,"  said  Dorla,  drawing  a  long 
breath. 

tf  Very  likely,"  said  Abby,  who  didn't  see  much  in  it. 
"  But  you  wouldn't  be,  if  Missy  were  sitting  on  the  grass, 
like  that  scrap." 

"  It  would  not  hurt  her,  if  she  had  always  lived  in  Beau- 
port,"  returned  Dorla,  coloring  a  little.  Then  they  came  to 
a  larger  old  stone  house,  standing  back  from  the  road,  on  a 
sort  of  elevation.  It  had  an  affiche  in  the  window,  <c  Maison 
&  louer"  but  it  had  evidently  been  there  through  storm  and 
shine,  a  good  deal  of  each. 

"  There  is  your  opportunity,"  said  Felix. 

"  Mayn't  we  go  in  and  see  it  ?  "  said  Dorla,  as  if  she  ex- 
pected to  be  refused." 

"  I  am  sure  we  may,"  said  Felix,  as  if  she  were  not  to  be 
refused  anything,  and  stopped  the  little  Irishman. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Abby,  who  wasn't  pleased.  "  What  is 
there  to  be  seen?  It  is  just  like  all  the  other  old  steep- 
roofed  things." 

And  when  Felix  opened  the  carriage-door,  she  refused  to 
follow  Dorla  out.  Mrs.  Glover,  who  felt  a  little  indolent, 
and  showed  no  interest  in  unconventional  houses,  declined  to 
follow.  So  Felix  and  Dorla  made  their  way  alone  through 
the  iinused  gate,  and  across  the  high  grass  to  the  house. 
There  were  some  briars  in  the  grass,  and  Dorla  had  to 
struggle  through  them,  once  or  twice  with  the  help  of  Felix's 
hand. 

"Beauport  folk  evidently  do  not  add  to  their  private 
thrift  the  virtue  of  keeping  their  neighbor's  unoccupied 
grounds  in  order." 

"  Who  would  ?  "  said  Dorla.  "  But  the  bliss  of  these 
deep  windows.  I  think  I  should  be  happy  if  I  lived  in  9 
house  with  window-seats,  and  walls  four  feet  thick." 


838  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  the  view  from  the  rear,"  he  said. 
And  they  made  their  way  to  the  back  of  the  house,  where 
the  tangle  of  vines  and  briars  was  greater.  Dorla  sat  down 
on  the  wide  stone  door-step  ;  there  was  an  overgrown  and 
wild  garden,  and  then  a  sketch  of  fields,  and  beyond  the 
blue  St.  Lawrence.  The  sky  was  so  clear  and  deep  in  color, 
the  air  so  pure  and  transparent,  and  the  sunshine  so  still  and 
golden,  that  neither  felt  willing  to  leave  the  silent  spot. 
They  started  some  birds  from  among  the  vines,  who  twittered 
and  then  flew  out  of  sight. 

'*  What  bliss  to  live  here  !  "  said  Dorla,  gazing  wistfully 
at  the  calm  fields  and  the  river. 

"  Do  you  think  you  should  be  happy  ? "  asked  her 
companion. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  should  be  happy  anywhere," 
she  said,  trying  to  keep  back  a  sudden  rush  of  tears ;  she 
had  been  fighting  for  so  many  days  with  the  sense  of  failure, 
it  was  hard  to  answer  this  question.  "  French  peasants  and 
a  two- wheeled  cart  would  do  a  good  deal  though,"  she  went 
on  desperately,  with  an  attempted  laugh. 

Felix  would  not  follow  her.  "  I  could  fancy  a  life  here 
that  would  be  bliss,"  he  said. 

"It  is  so  easy  to  fancy,  and  so  hard  to  realize,"  she  an- 
swered, getting  up  quickly.  "  I  don't  believe  in  bliss." 

11  No,  only  in  monotony  and  mediocrity,  and  a  life  of 
duty." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  stepping  down  into  the 
grass  with  a  sudden  confusing  recollection  of  Abby  and  the 
present.  They  were  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  house  ; 
far  beyond  it  on  the  grass,  lay  long,  slanting  shadows  of 
ftill  trees. 

She  moved  toward  the  sunshine  that  lay  beyond  the  old 
grey-stone  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  said  Felix,  in  a  tone  that  arrested  her, 
ftnd  he  did  not  move.  She  involuntarily  stood  still,  half- 
turned  towards  him,  "  Mrs.  Rothermel,  I  want  to  ask  you 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  339 

something.  Are  you  going  to  marry  Henry  Stanfield  ? 
For  I  think  it  would  be  such  a  pity  for  a  woman  to  marry 
twice  from  a  sense  of  duty." 

The  suddenness  of  this  and  its  audacity,  had  the  effect  ol 
stunning  her  for  an  instant.  And  there  was  something  in 
the  tcne,  derisive  above  and  deep  below,  that  shook  her  very 
heart  What  was  it?  where  did  they  stand ?  It  was  all  a 
dream ;  and  yet  there  was  Felix  not  two  feet  from  her,  with 
a  calm,  indifferent  face,  and  blue  eyes  that  had  only  scrutiny 
iii  them.  It  was  only  the  tone  that  stirred  her.  The  words 
were  too  daring  and  unpardonable  to  awaken  anything  but 
anger.  At  that  moment  Abby's  high-pitched  voice  calling 
them  from  the  gate,  made  them  both  start. 

"You  have  not  answered  me,"  he  said,  following  her. 
"  Are  you  going  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  I  may,  perhaps,"  she  said,  steadily  in  a  low  tone,  as  he 
walked  beside  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  stung,  "  I  have  delivered 
my  soul.  I  have  told  you  that  I  thought  it  was  a  pity. 
And  now  I  suppose  I  had  much  better  let  the  subject  alone 
in  future." 

"  Very  much  better,"  she  said,  hardly  audible.  And  so 
they  walked  in  silence  to  the  carriage.  Her  hand  shook  so, 
she  would  not  touch  that  of  Felix  as  she  got  into  the  car- 
riage. Mrs.  Glover  and  Abby  were  not  blind.  Here  was  a 
pretty  sight.  Dorla  with  burning  cheeks,  looking  as  if  she 
had  been  crying,  and  Felix  white  as  ashes.  For  a  few 
moments  after  they  drove  on,  no  one  attempted  to  speak. 
It  was  an  absurd  quartette.  Gradually,  Mrs.  Glover  being 
only  angry  and  chagrined,  began  to  find  her  voice.  Then 
Felix,  though  it  was  like  somebody  talking  in  a  play,  and 
then  Abby,  with  a  keen  rush  of  sarcastic  levity.  Only  poor 
Dorla  could  not  speak.  Poor  Dorla,  it  was  as  if  some  one 
had  struck  her  in  the  face.  If  she  had  been  obliged  to 
Ipeak,  she  surely  would  have  broken  down.  It  was  cer- 
tainly rather  poor  spirited  in  a  man  to  speak  crudlj  and  in- 


340  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

Bultingly  t)  a  woman  like  that,  one  whose  aiger  wafl 
quenched  at  once  in  a  flood  of  tears.  Insult,  to  her,  only 
called  out  the  self-accusation  that  always  abode  with  her. 

"  It  is  my  fault.  I  deserved  it.  He  never  would  have 
sjxjken  so  to  any  other  woman.  He  cannot  respect  me,  and 
I  cannot  blame  him." 

The  rest  of  the  drive  was  a  sort  of  dream  to  her  ;  she  saw 
nothing  by  the  road-side,  and  only  heard  the  voices  of  her 
companions  with  bewilderment.  They  all  seemed  to  know 
their  parts,  to  overact  them  even ;  and  she  alone  could  not 
tell  what  or  where  she  stood.  She  only  longed  to  get  away 
from  them,  to  hold  Missy  by  the  hand,  and  to  reassure  her- 
self of  the  life  to  which  she  really  belonged.  She  was  no 
match  for  the  child  Abby,  in  her  jealousy  and  suspicion 
strong  and  passionate  as  a  woman.  The  contest  was  just 
beginning.  It  had  taken  Abby  a  long  time  to  believe  it 
possible,  that  one  so  unlikely  as  Dorla  could  be  her  rival. 
A.nd  her  mother  had  never  been  convinced  of  it  till  now. 
A_fter  this  there  could  not  be  a  doubt.  They  were,  in  their 
way,  as  angry  and  revengeful  as  if  she  had  been  plotting 
against  them. 

A  good  deal  of  this  Felix  saw,  and  acted  like  a  demon. 
He  tried  to  torment  Dorla,  with  the  same  words  that  would 
soothe  Abby.  He  was  in  such  a  rage  with  her,  for  presum- 
ing to  like  any  one  better  than  she  liked  him,  that  it 
gave  him  a  sort  of  satisfaction  to  see  that  she  was  suffer- 
ing. He  gloried  in  having  spoken  insultingly  to  her,  though 
the  impulse  to  do  it  had  been  so  sudden,  he  could  i>ot 
explain  it.  His  anger  had  been  kindled  by  her  defence  of 
Henry  Stanfield,  at  the  beginning  of  the  drive,  and  had  been 
suddenly  revived  by  her  trifling  tone,  when  he  had  chosen  to 
be  sentimental. 

At  last  the  drive  came  to  an  end ;  the  reeking  horses 
drew  up  before  the  little  inn.  Dorla  sprang  out  of  the  car- 
riage without  waiting  for  hin\  and  hurried  to  meet  Henry 
and  Missy,  who  ran  across  the  street  to  her.  Missy  grasped 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  341 

ber  hand,  and  she  took  the  arm  of  Henry,  and  vanished  from 
Bight  into  the  woods  that  border  the  enclosure  round  th« 
Falls.  That  was  a  pleasing  sight  to  Mrs.  Glover,  who  made 
the  most  of  it.  To  Abby,  who  watched  the  face  of  Felix, 
not  half  as  pleasing.  She  was  in  no  hurry  to  follow  them, 
though  Felix  was,  alas  !  He  was  very  absent-minded,  and 
forgot  to  be  devoted  as  he  had  been  when  Dorla  was  their 
vis-a-vis.  After  many  delays,  they  passed  through  the  bat- 
talion of  little  beggars  at  the  entrance,  selecting  one  as 
guide,  and  going  along,  grimly  enough  for  a  party  of  pleas- 
ure. It  is  a  bad  sign  when  pleasure-seekers  begin  to  look  at 
watches. 

"  We  shall  have  a  late  dinner,"  said  Felix,  taking  his  out 
of  his  pocket.  "  It  is  past  five,  and  we  have  no  chance  of 
getting  off  on  our  return,  for  half  an  hour,  at  least." 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  said  Abby,  spitefully. 

"  There  is  no  law  against  looking  at  one's  watch,"  said 
Mrs.  Glover,  trying  to  make  peace. 

"  O,  let  us  hurry,"  cried  Abby,  tauntingly.  "  It  will  not 
take  many  minutes  to  glance  at  the  Falls.  Anything  rather 
than  interfere  with  dinner." 

"  The  horses  have  got  to  rest,"  said  Felix  nonchalantly. 
"  Shall  we  go  through  this  wood-path  ?  I  believe  there  is 
rather  a  pretty  ramble." 

Abby,  divining  that  the  object  of  going  there  was  to 
meet  the  others  who  had  disappeared  so  suddenly,  wisely  de- 
clined to  do  anything  but  go  to  the  Falls  by  the  route  the 
nost  direct.  The  grass  was  slippery  and  dry,  and  the  path 
well  worn.  The  little  French  guide  was  rather  unnecessary. 

"  If  you  are  willing,"  said  Felix,  "  I  will  pay  you  and  let 
you  go  back.  For  I  feel  that  we  are  trespassing  on  your 
time  unjustifiably." 

The  boy  laughed  a  little,  though  it  is  probable  he  did  not 
understand,  and  took  his  money,  and  made  rapidly  cfF  on 
his  bare  fee*/.  At  one  point,  through  the  woods,  they  caughr 
»  beautiful  view  of  the  Falls. 


842  &  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  There,  we  have  seen  it,"  said  Abby.  "  Now  we  can  go 
back." 

"  No,"  said  Felix,  drearily,  "  there  is  more  we  have  to  see, 
You  go  down  steps  or  something  opposite  the  Fall,  if  I  ro 
member  right." 

"  Is  one  permitted  to  be  tired  and  hungry  ?  "  said  Abby. 
"  For  I  am  that." 

"It  is  only  a  few  yards  further.  Ah  !  here  are  our  com- 
panions." 

"  Why,  no,  I  don't  think  they're  exactly  our  companions. 
They  are  each  other's  companions,"  said  Abby,  with  malice. 

"  They  will  be  our  companions,  then,  when  we  join  them," 
said  Felix,  walking  determinedly  up  to  them.  Abby  and 
fjer  mother  could  not  do  anything  but  follow.  Mrs.  Glover 
began  to  talk  a  good  deal,  no  one  cared  much  about  what. 
Dorla  had  regained  some  composure,  and  could  answer  her 
sufficiently.  While  they  were  talking  together  in  this  way, 
standing  on  the  bank  of  the  ravine,  no  one  thought  of 
Missy  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Where  is  Missy?  "  suddenly  cried  Henry,  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  Mrs.  Glover's  involved  sentences.  Dorla  gave  a  start, 
and  looked  around.  Every  one  was  startled  not  to  see  her ; 
it  was  not  just  the  place  to  lose  sight  of  a  child  of  six.  The 
precipice  beside  the  path  was  very  abrupt,  and  so  it  had  been 
for  some  distance,  though  no  one  had  noticed  it  with  inter- 
est. 

"  She  has  gone  back  into  the  woods  for  some  anemones;  I 
am  sure  she  has  gone  there,"  cried  Dorla,  flying  back  in  the 
direction  of  the  woods.  Henry  shook  his  head  and  hurried 
awjiy  towards  an  opposite  point.  Abby,  with  a  wrathful 
protest,  went  one  way,  her  mother  another.  Felix  followed 
Dorla.  It  smote  his  heart  to  see  her  terror,  and  t.-r  effort 
In  conceal  it. 

" 1  do  not  see  her,"  she  said,  her  teeth  chattering.  "  Call 
for  her."  Poor  thing !  she  could  not  call  herself.  They 
hurried  up  and  down  the  paths,  asked  two  or  three  personf 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  343 

whom  they  met  if  she  had  been  seen ;  called,  but  no  misera 
ble  little  Missy. 

«'  Do  not  be  frightened/'  said  Felix.  "  There  are  a  hun- 
dred places  where  she  may  be  innocently  at  play.  We  shall 
Snd  her,  in  a  few  minutes,  some  of  us.  Really,  you  are  un« 
necessarily  frightened." 

Dorla  had  been  flying  along  the  paths  of  the  shaded  little 
civilized  forest,  at  a  pace  at  which  even  he  could  not  have 
long  continued.  Now  she  began  to  tremble  and  grow 
white. 

«  [f  the  others  had  found  her  wouldn't  they  call  out  ?  "  she 
tried  to  say. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Felix,  "  but  maybe  we  could  not  hear 
them.  It  is  better  to  go  back.  I  don't  think  we  shall 
find  she  is  in  this  wood."  He  enlisted  the  services  of  two 
obliging  English  gentlemen,  to  beat  up  the  wood,  and  then 
came  back  to  Dorla,  who  shook  all  over,  but  refused  to 
rest.  Then  he  told  her  to  take  his  arm,  which  she  humbly 
did,  and  walked  on  as  well  as  she  could,  back  to  the  spot 
whore  they  had  been  when  they  missed  the  child.  Mrs. 
Glover  and  Abby  were  standing  there,  and  they  shook  their 
heads  with  anxious  looks. 

"  Those  steps,  those  horrible  steps,"  she  said  in  a  moment. 
"  I  know  she  has  gone  down  them."  The  steps  were  very 
steep  and  dizzy  things,  which  had  made  Dorla  shudder  when 
she  looked  at  them ;  rickety  too,  and  uncertain  with  age. 
The  first  flight  looks  interminable  seen  from  above  ;  then  the 
little  platform  with  a  roof,  and  then  another  flight  sheer 
down,  among  the  rocks  and  debris  at  the  bottom  of  the  ra- 
vine— at  least,  so  it  had  looked  to  Dorla,  who  was  never 
strong  of  nerve.  Inspired  with  this  new  certainty,  she 
drew  Felix  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  which  commanded  a 
view  of  the  descent. 

At  the  moment  that  Felix  was  saying,  "  No,  you  see  she  is 
not  there,"  there  was  a  flutter  of  a  bit  of  white,  far  down  al- 
most at  the  bottom,  and  there  was  Missy,  toiling  painfully 


344  -<*  PERFECT  AVONI8. 

up,  with  her  arms  full  of  weeds  and  flowers.  Dorla  gave  • 
scream  and  sprang  forward. 

The  child,  unconscious  of  their  eyes,  was  climbing  up  the 
steep  ascent  only  careful  of  her  leaves  and  flowers,  not  even 
taking  hold  of  the  railing,  and  making  little  childish  irregular 
steps ;  but  even  with  this,  it  seemed  to  those  who  looked,  the 
frail  fabric  shook  and  rocked.  One  misstep  :  Ah ! 

At  the  same  moment  that  they  had  seen  her,  Henry  from 
the  top  of  the  steps  had  seen  her  too.  Dorla  saw  him  dart 
forward,  and  go  quickly  down  the  stair  ;  and  her  heart  stood 
still  as  she  watched  him.  If  Missy  caught  sight  of  him  sud- 
denly, sha  might  be  startled  and  lose  her  footing.  At  the 
platform  they  saw  him  pause,  and  call  her  softly.  Dorla 
grasped  Felix's  arm  to  steady  herself,  and  watched  breath- 
lessly. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Felix  aloud,  with  a  tone  of  some  relief  as  the 
child  looked  up  and  moved  towards  him  without  affright  or 
unsteadiness.  Henry  must  have  told  her  to  take  the  railing, 
for  she  dropped  some  of  her  flowers  and  grasped  the  balus- 
ter. But  she  looked  such  a  mite ;  she  could  hardly  reach 
it ;  and  she  climbed  on  child-fashion,  bringing  both  feet  on  each 
step,  and  taking  a  fresh  start  each  time.  Henry  came  down 
quickly  and  steadily  to  meet  her ;  she  toiled  on  with  occas- 
ional pauses.  At  last,  as  they  met  and  he  lifted  her  in  his 
arms,  Dorla's  nerves  gave  way,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"  Really,"  said  Abby,  sharply,  "  I  shouldn't  think  thero 
was  anything  to  cry  about  now."  The  offence  was,  Felix 
seemed  so  sorry  for  her.  Mrs.  Glover  had  more  feeling,  and 
went  up  to  her  and  talked  kindly.  But  kind  talk  came 
upon  unheeding  ears.  She  cried  with  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands,  and  heard  and  answered  no  one,  till  Missy's  shrill 
voice  sounded  in  her  ears.  Henry  came  hurrying  up  the  path, 
with  the  child  in  his  arms,  who  leaned  forward  to  her 
mother.  Dorla  stretched  out  her  arms  and  caught  her,  and 
turned  away  from  them  all  as  if  she  hated  them,  and  kissed 
her  and  cried  still.  Missy,  frightened  and  subdued  by  thi? 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  346 

{mutual  violence,  was  quite  silent.  If  Henry  looked  foi 
my  thanks,  he  did  not  get  them.  Indeed  he  seemed  quite 
satisfied  to  be  forgotten  since  he  had  seen  her  happy. 

"  Well,  may  we  go  now  ?  "  said  Abby,  with  a  contemptu- 
ous gesture  of  the  hand  to  the  others,  as  if  to  say  she  had 
seen  quite  enough. 

"  I  think  we  are  all  ready,"  said  Felix,  coldly.  And 
Mrs.  Glover  and  Abby  moved  away  with  him. 

Henry  stayed  behind  with  Dorla  and  Missy. 

Ten  minutes  later,  these  three  came  across  the  road  to  the 
little  inn.  Dorla  had  a  Tceil  very  tight  across  her  face,  and 
had  abjured  crying.  Missy,  like  a  dutiful  little  daughter, 
was  looking  up  at  her  and  being  very  silent.  The  carriage 
and  the  oaleche  were  standing  before  the  door  ;  in  the  former 
sat  the  two  ladies  with  ill-disguised  impatience.  Felix  stood 
with  the  carriage  door  open. 

"  I  think  you  must  have  forgotten  we  were  going  back  to 
Quebec,  to-night,"  said  Abby,  tartly. 

"  I  ?  O,  I  am  sorry  you  waited  for  me.  I  am  going  back 
in  the  caleche,"  returned  Dorla,  walking  towards  that  vehi- 
cle, as  if  it  were  amazing  that  they  had  not  known  where 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  drive.  She  did  not  attempt 
any  apology,  nor  in  fact  look  again  towards  them. 

Felix  stepped  quickly  into  the  carriage,  and  pulled  the 
door  to  sharply,  and  they  drove  on.  Looking  back,  however, 
from  where  he  sat,  he  could  see  Henry  putting  her  into  the 
caleche  with  tenderness  and  care,  and  could  see  him  take 
his  place  beside  her,  with  the  mite  Missy  on  his  lap. 

"  I  really  think  it  would  have  been  more  civil  to  have 
made  some  apology,"  said  Mrs.  Glover,  much  out  of  humor, 

"  I  suppose  it  is  to  reward  the  faithful  Henry  for  his  feat 
>f  gallantry,"  returned  Abby. 

"  Ton  shall  have  sprats 
For  your  humanity, 
My  seven  fine  cats, 

Said  Dame  Wiggins  of  Lee." 


£46  ^  PERFECT  ADOXI& 

"  I  do  not  see  the  prowess,  though,  in  walking  down  a 
flight  of  steps  that  every  tourist  walks  do  WE  every  time  he 
comes  to  Montmorenci." 

"  No,  you  do  not  see  it,  because  he  is  not  your  Henry." 

"  But  it  is  quite  impossible  to  say  what  it  may  result  in," 
said  Mrs.  Glover.  "  With  these  deadly  sentimental  women, 
such  things  are  often  made  the  turning-point." 

Felix  had  not  much  reverence  for  Mrs.  Gfl over's  judgment 
ordinarily,  but  on  this  occasion  he  felt  that  she  had  spoken 
sooth.  It  was  quite  impossible  to  know  what  estimate 
Dorla  was  going  to  put  upon  the  walk  of  Henry  down  the 
steps ;  but  it  was  not  possible  to  doubt  that  it  would  be  an 
exaggerated  one. 

"  I  do  like  common  sense,"  said  Mrs.  Glover,  leaning  back 
in  the  carriage,  as  they  rolled  over  the  white  road  through 
Beau  port  village.  Abby  was  eminent  for  common  sense, 
or  rather  for  the  absence  of  sentiment,  and  Mrs.  Glover 
hoped  that  that  quality  would  strike  Felix  favorably  after 
having  been  put  through  a  scene.  She  knew  men  hated 
scenes ;  and  Dorla  had  made  such  a  fool  of  herself.  "  The 
future  of  that  child  Missy  really  weighs  upon  me,"  she 
went  on,  as  no  one  responded  to  her  praise  of  common 
sense. 

"  I  think  her  present  is  enough  of  a  nuisance  without 
troubling  one's  self  about  her  future,"  said  Abby. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  Mrs.  Glover,  addressing  herself 
to  Felix,  "  that  a  child  so  situated  is  certain  of  an  unhappy 
womanhood  ?  " 

"I  know  so  little  about  children,  I  am  sure  I  cannot 
judge,"  Felix  answered,  non-commital. 

"  But  think,"  said  Mrs.  Glover,  meditatively,  "  of  such 
a  temperament  remaining  so  ungoverned.  Think  of  the 
mother's  foolish  fondness,  of  her  foolish  apprehensions,  and 
her  emotional  tendency.  I  really  don't  know  what  will 
happen  to  the  child,  if  she  finds  herself  in  a  different  posi 
tion  some  day.  If  her  mother  marries  Henry  Stanfield — " 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  347 

"  I  am  sure  he  wouldn't  hurt  a  mosquito,"  cried  Abby. 

"  But  if  there  are  ever  other  children,"  persisted  Mrs. 
Glover. 

"  Then  undoubtedly,  Missy  will  be  let  alone  a  little  more,'1 
said  Felix  in  an  irritated  tone,  and  as  if  he  had  heard  more 
than  he  wanted  of  the  matter.  ^ 

Mrs.  Glover  found  herself  snubbed,  and  not  being  a  prac- 
tised diplomat,  subsided  into  silence  and  brooded  over  her 
woiinds.  She  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  walks  of  diplomacy 
require  complete  self-abnegation.  People  must  not  brood 
over  their  wounds,  if  they  want  to  gain  their  point  in  any 
matter. 

The  summer  twilight  was  gathering  faintly ;  the  green 
fields  and  the  quaint  Norman  houses  lay  quiet  by  the  road- 
side ;  men  sat  in  the  doorways  now,  smoking  after  the  labors 
of  the  day  ;  now  and  then,  a  little  black-eyed  child  ran 
forward  and  held  up  a  bouquet  to  the  silent  carriage,  as 
it  rolled  by.  No  one  noticed  the  little  offerings.  Abby 
waved  the  first  away  contemptuously,  and  after  that  showed 
her  contempt  by  not  looking  towards  the  offerers.  The  pre- 
valence of  ill-humor  was  apparent  even  to  the  little  Irish 
driver,  who  looked  around  occasionally,  in  wonder  where 
were  the  gibes,  the  jests  that  had  made  the  outward  voyage 
HO  noisy.  As  they  passed  over  the  Bridge  they  came  up 
\vith  a  party  of  acquaintances  from  the  hotel. 

"  What  makes  you  all  so  quiet  ?  "  cried  one. 

"  I  hope  you  haven't  quarrelled,"  said  another. 

"  Those  people  are  insufferable  in  their  familiarity,"  said 
Abby,  drawing  farther  back  into  the  carriage,  though  sh« 
had  played  whist  with  them  for  hours  the  night  before. 

When  at  last  they  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  hotel, 
»he  said,  "  thank  Heaven,"  with  irreverent  ill-temper  between 
tier  teeth,  and  sprung  out  spurning  the  offered  hand  of 
Felix.  This  was  tne  second  time  that  afternoon  that  Felix 
had  had  that  experience  ;  and  Mrs.  Glover  took  his  hand  as 
if  phe  would  not  have  done  it  if  it  could  have  been  avokled 


B48  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  I  am  becoming  unpopular,"  thought  Felix,  with  grim 
humor. 

"  Come,"  cried  the  officious  friends  of  the  Bridge,  meeting 
them  at  the  door  of  the  reception  room.  "  We  shan't  have 
time  to  lovelify  for  dinner,  let  us  go  in  shabbily  together." 

Abby  was  ready  tq  cry  "  I  don't  want  any  dinner,  let  me 
alone,"  when  she  bethought  herself  this  was  not  the  way 
people  acted  when  they  were  jealous,  unless  they  wanted 
every  one  to  know  about  it.  So,  as  there  was  a  young  man 
in  the  offensive  party,  she  wisely  concluded  to  make  him  of 
use,  and  they  all  went  in  to  dinner  together,  Abby  very 
much  engrossed  by  the  young  man,  and  Mrs.  Glover  restored 
by  the  sentiment  of  admiration  with  which  her  daughter's 
conduct  inspired  her. 

By  which  means  Felix  was  left  at  liberty  ;  and  after  din- 
ner, "  when  all  the  ways  were  dim,"  he  wandered  with  his 
cigar  up  and  down  Mt.  Carmel  Street,  and  had  at  last  the 
doubtful  recompense  of  seeing  Henry  come  out  from  the 
house  where  Dorla  lodged,  with,  as  he  fancied,  a  brisker  step 
and  a  more  uplifted  head  than  was  his  wont. 

"  Then  it's  all  settled,"  he  said,  knocking  the  ashes  off  his 
cigar ;  and  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  he  resumed  his 
walk.  "  It's  all  settled,  but  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  Fate, 
why  did  it  bring  me  here  to  this  dull  town,  to  assist  at  the 
denouement  ?  If  I  had  read  it  in  an  Eastern  paper  while  I 
was  off  in  California,  it  would  not  have  impressed  me  my  ch." 

That  was  not  true,  but  it  was  his  belief,  or  at  least  h  was 
the  belief  he  meant  to  hold.  And  he  tried  in  tho  same 
breath  to  convince  himself  that  he  only  felt  sorry  tkat  she 
was  throwing  herself  away,  because  of  a  lingering  tender  in- 
,/erest  that  a  man  must  always  feel  for  a  woman  after  he  haa 
loved  her.  It  was  a  pity,  as  he  had  rudely  told  /aer,  for  a 
woman  to  marry  twice  from  a  sense  of  duty.  HeLry  seemed 
»mch  a  pitiful  piece  of  mediocrity  to  him,  in  this  wise  only 
better  than  his  predecessor,  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  And 
thn  child  was  so  miserable  an  object  for  which  to  sacrifice  w 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  349 

rare  and  beautiful  a  mother  I  The  idea  that  she  TIB  fur- 
nishing a  protector  to  Missy,  and  securing  her  future  happi 
ness  and  safety,  was,  he  saw,  leading  Dorla  into  this  second 
misery.  The  child's  unreasonable  fondness  for  him  wa^ 
making  the  tangle  more  complete.  "  If  he  had  only  stepped 
on  her  hand,  alas  !  " 

But  there  was  no  use  in  wasting  words  or  thougLbs  about 
it ;  he  had  better  go  away  from  Quebec  at  once,  and  forget 
about  this  hazy,  passing  vision,  this  dream  of  a  dream  that 
he  had  had.  To-morrow  he  would  go.  So  he  strolled 
again  up  Mt.  Carmel  Street,  and  felt  that  it  was  his  last 
night  in  Quebec.  He  looked  at  Dorla's  windows,  where  the 
light  burned  dim  ;  and  then  he  passed  on  up  the  street,  and 
leaned  over  a  low  wall,  where  two  poplars  stand  guard  over 
a  garden,  and  looked  across  a  sea  of  roofs,  where  many  lights 
twinkled  through  the  dim  soft  air.  "  T  am  glad  to  have 
been  here,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  There  is  nothing  to  be 
sorry  about."  And  so  he  flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  away, 
among  the  trees  and  roofs  below  him,  and,  with  a  sort  of 
sigh,  went  slowly  from  the  spot 


rERY  one  knows  it  is  not  so  easy  to  get  away 
from  places  as  to  go  to  them,  (especially  if  you  are 
not  %  ery  determined  about  it.)  Felix  thought  he 
surely  would  go  away  from  Quebec  that  next  day,  but  many 
tilings  combined  to  make  him  stay.  In  the  first  place,  every- 
body had  recovered  his  or  her  temper ;  the  weather  was  fine, 
in  the  second ;  no  one  expected  him  o  go,  in  the  third  ;  and 
in  the  fourth,  he  didn't  want  to.  It  would  surprise  tkeru 
all,  to  have  him  go  away,  and  all  would  say  there  was  a 
cause  in  his  disappointment  about  Mrs.  RothermeL  He  re- 
sumed his  old  place  with  Abby.  Indeed  she  was  a  little 
softer  and  more  attractive  since  her  passionate  fit  of  jeal- 
ousy, %n/i  he  was  in  proportion  more  gentle  in  his  manner  t«o 


350  A  PERFECT  ADOJilS. 

her.  Mrs.  Glover's  hopes  revived,  and  Mrs.  Biihop  seemed 
perfectly  well  satisfied  with  the  progress  of  events.  Dorla 
refused  to  go  out  with  them  at  all  that  day,  and  Felix  only 
saw  her  once,  on  her  knees  in  the  Seminary  Chapel,  whither 
he  had  strayed  in  the  unannounced  hope  of  finding  silence, 
and  a  half  hour  to  himself.  She  had  been  crying,  he  saw, 
when  she  passed  out  of  the  door ;  he  took  pains  that  she 
should  not  see  him.  The  next  day  he  encountered  her  in 
Fabrique  Street,  but  she  had  Missy,  Marie,  and  Henry  with 
her,  and  that  was  reason  eL.ough  for  passing  with  a  bow. 
There  was  time  enough  for  him  to  see,  however,  that  she 
flushed  painfully.  And  so  the  next  day  passed. 

Henry  was  becoming  insufferable.  Not  from  airs  of  suc- 
cess; blessed  soul,  that  was  not  his  way  of  sinning;  but 
from  unspeakable  in-love-ness.  He  was  so  absent-minded, 
so  engrossed  in  his  own  thoughts,  that  at  the  table,  Abby 
never  addressed  him  without  making  several  loud  raps  with 
the  handle  of  her  knife  or  fork  to  ensure  his  attention,  before 
beginning  her  observation.  This  always  had  the  effect  of 
making  Felix  furious,  and  of  giving  Mrs.  Bishop's  nerves  a 
great  shock,  and  of  irritating  even  Mrs.  Glover.  Only  Henry 
was  entirely  unmoved,  and  seemed  to  forget  she  had  ever 
done  it  before.  But  nothing  interfered  with  the  practice, 
as  Abby  was  in  the  habit  of  riding  rough-shod  over  the 
prejudices  of  her  associates.  Felix  sometimes  said  to  him- 
self, he  would  alter  his  dinner  hour  and  let  them  have  the 
round  table  and  the  scarlet  geranium  to  themselves ;  but  he 
never  had  the  resolution  to  break  away  from  them.  It  be- 
gan to  be  quite  apparent,  however,  that  he  had  little  to  gain 
from  their  connection  with  Dorla.  Of  course  he  dared  not 
go  to  Mt.  Carmel  Street,  and  she  had  completely  withdrawn 
(HN  self  from  them,  when  there  was  any  danger  of  encounter- 
ing him.  Henry  and  Mrs.  Bishop  were  with  her  incessantly, 
it  seemed  to  him,  from  the  talk  at  the  table ;  Mrs.  Glover 
tnd  Abby  occasionally,  though  with  much  distaste.  Still  it 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  351 

iras  "  amusing  "  enough  to  keep  him  in  Quebec,  these  little 
chances  and  glimpses. 

On  the  fourth  morning,  however,  after  the  drive  to  the 
Falls,  Felix  came  down  early,  after  rather  a  hot  and  sleep- 
less night.  It  was  an  hour  before  the  breakfast  time  ob- 
served by  the  party,  and  while  walking  up  and  down  the 
reading  room,  and  debating  in  his  own  mind  the  wisdom  of 
getting  through  with  that  meal  in  peace  and  taking  th« 
morning  to  himself,  he  caught  sight  of  a  well-known  figure, 
crossing  the  dark  hall,  from  the  reception  room,  through 
trunks  and  porters  and  news  stands.  Dorla  moved  with  the 
hesitation  and  discomfort  of  a  young  woman,  unaccustomed 
to  take  care  of  herself  in  such  places.  She  told  a  porter  to 
bring  a  clerk  to  her,  and  then  she  grew  frightened  and  told 
the  porter  to  bring  her  to  a  clerk.  All  were  very  busy,  as 
a  train  or  boat  was  just  arriving,  and  no  one  paid  much  heed 
to  her  as  she  stood  beside  the  desk  among  a  dozen  dusty, 
hurrying,  and  ill-humored  travellers.  Felix  threw  aside  the 
newspaper  he  had  taken  up,  and  went  out  to  her. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Mrs.  Rothermel  ?  "  he  said, 
speaking  in  his  ordinary  tone ;  but  when  she  turned  hei 
face  to  him,  he  saw  there  was  something  the  matter. 

"  O,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  want  a  doctor — Missy  is  very  ill. 
I  am  trying  to  get  them  to  send  a  servant  up  to  Mr.  Stan- 
field." 

Felix  said,  "  Come  back  to  the  reception  room.  I  will 
Bend  up." 

She  followed  him,  and  while  he  called  a  servant  to  him, 
ihe  exclaimed : 

**  Oh,  it  will  be  so  long !  He  may  not  yet  be  up." 

61  What  do  you  want  him  for  ?  "  asked  Felix  abruptly, 

"  To  get  the  doctor  for  me." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  can  do  that  as  well." 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  would." 

Then  Felix  dismissed  the  servant,  and  getting  from  the 
»mcothe  address  of  the  only  homoeopath  ID  the  city,  sprang 


852  A  PERFECT  ADONIS, 

into  a  caliche,  and  departed  on  his  mission,  Dorla  being  al- 
ready on  her  way  back  to  Missy's  bedside,  without  so  much 
AS  a  look  at  him. 

The  doctor  lived  outside  the  gate ;  it  was  a  long  drive, 
and  the  end  of  it  was  not  reached  when  his  house  waa 
found.  Felix  hunted  him  out  of  the  abode  of  a  desper- 
ately sick  man  at  some  distance,  and  bore  him  back  with 
him  in  the  caliche.  He  bribed  the  Frenchman  to  drive  fur- 
iously. When  they  rattled  up  to  the  door  in  Mount  Carmel 
Street,  the  maid  opened  it  as  if  she  had  been  watching  for 
them,  and  said  :  <f  Would  Mr.  Yarian  please  go  up  to  the 
parlor  and  speak  to  Mrs.  Rothermel  a  moment  ?  " 

Felix  went  up  after  the  doctor.  Dorla  met  them  with  an 
anxious  face,  forgot  Felix's  existence,  and  took  the  doctoi 
into  the  adjoining  room.  Felix  walked  about  the  room,  not 
ill  pleased  to  be  there.  It  was  in  a  sort  of  confusion,  be- 
tokening sudden  illness.  One  of  Missy's  sacks  lay  on  a 
chair,  and  one  of  her  tiny,  tiny  shoes.  A  bowl  of  gruel  and 
some  lemons  and  some  ice  stood  on  the  table  where  flowers 
and  ferns  had  been  wont  to  stand.  The  pillow  of  the  sofa 
was  crushed  down,  and  a  shawl  lay  on  the  cushion  as  if  some 
one  had  lain  there  to  snatch  a  moment's  rest,  and  half  under 
the  pillow  was  a  little,  well-worn  book  of  prayer,  with  D.  R. 
stamped  upon  the  cover.  The  windows  were  open,  for  the 
day  was  warm.  Marie  crept  out  of  the  bedchamber,  with  a 
torpid  face.  It  was  very  little  to  her  that  Missy  was  in  a 
tearing  fever;  but  much,  that  breakfast  time  was  passing 
unobserved.  She  cast  a  stealthy  glance  at  Felix,  wondering 
how  he  came  there,  and  mechanically  began  to  pick  up  the 
Btray  sack  and  shoe,  and  put  the  room  in  order.  Felix 
thought  her  an  oyster  for  intelligence  and  sympathy,  anil 
wondered  vaguely  how  Dorla  ever  could  have  taken  her  into 
her  service.  He  did  not  feel  any  surprise  that  Marie  did  not 
love  Missy,  but  that  Marie  should  be  endured,  lacking  that 
Affection.  Perhaps  maids  that  love  Missies  do  not  grow  01: 
tverr  bush,  however.  That  was  A  new  thought.  In  all  the 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  353 

rorld,  one  person  loved  the  little,  fever-stricken  creature  in 
fche  other  room.  It  was  a  love  worth  all  the  rest,  perhaps  ; 
but  still  it  was  but  one.  He  wondered  how  it  felt  to  love  a 
child  like  that.  It  was  strong,  that  mother  passion.  But 
all  women  do  not  love  their  children  so.  All  the  world  fell 
away  out  of  Dorla's  sight  anil  thought,  if  a  shadow  fell  on 
Missy. 

At  that  moment  she  came  out  of  the  room  with  a  slip  of 
paper  in  her  hand.  She  looked  from  Felix  to  Marie  as  if  un- 
certain which  would  do  her  errand  best.  She  decided  upon 
Felix  and  went  up  to  him,  and  giving  him  the  paper,  with- 
out preface,  said,  "  Get  this  for  me  just  as  quickly  as  you 
can,  please.  Poirier,  St.  John's  Street,  near  the  Gate." 

"  I  remember  the  shop,"  said  Felix. 

And  she  disappeared  into  the  room  while  he  went  out  the 
door.  When  he  came  back  from  the  druggist's,  he  found 
the  doctor  in  the  parlor  sitting  quietly,  with  his  watch  in 
his  hand.  This  person  also  treated  him  as  errand-boy,  and 
said,  "Just  sit  down  and  wait  a  minute,  I  may  want  you 
to  go  out  again ;  "  and  went  into  the  bedroom. 

After  a  time  he  came  out  again,  and  took  up  his  hat.  "  I 
will  come  back  in  an  hour,"  he  said ;  "  I  haven't  had  mj 
breakfast." 

"  How  do  you  find  the  child  ?  "  said  Felix,  wondering 
what  relation  the  doctor  thought  he  was  to  the  little  patient. 
The  doctor  said  the  child  looked  ill ;  it  might  be  scartet 
fever,  it  might  be  half  a  dozen  things.  She  had  a  very  bad 
pulse,  but  he  did  not  know  what  her  pulse  generally  ran.  It 
was  difficult  to  judge.  A  few  hours  would  decide  the  mat- 
ter. He  would  watch  her  closely,  and  then,  hungry  and  cool, 
Che  doctor  went  his  way. 

Tc  do  Felix  justice,  he  had  not  once  thought  of  his  break- 
fast. He  was  very  well  contented  to  sit  in  the  shaded,  cool, 
*nd  now  tidy  room,  and  know  that  Dorla  must  in  a  few 
moments,  more  or  less,  come  out  from  that  door.  When 
the  dil,  she  secyied  in  a  sort  of  maa3  at  seeing  him. 


554  A  PERFECT  ADOJHTI8. 

"  The  doctor  told  me  to  waif,,  he  might  want  something," 
said  Felix,  apologetically.  "  But  now,  I  suppose  he  will 
not  need  me." 

"  Don't  go — till  he  comes  back." 

"  I  will  not,  surely,"  returned  Felix  earnestly. 

Then  Marie,  who  stood  in  the  doorway,  said  in  a  low  voice. 
Monsieur  had  not  had  his  breakfast,  nor  for  the  matter  of 
that,  had  any  of  them.  This  recalled  Dorla  to  her  senses, 
and  to  the  cold  knowledge  that  she  alone  was  suffering,  and 
that  other  people  could  think  of  what  they  had  to  eat. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  you  will  go  at 
once  ;  I  do  not  know  how  I  could  have  forgotten." 

"  I  do  not  want  my  breakfast  and  had  not  thought  of  it," 
said  Felix,  almost  angrily,  "  Send  the  woman  down,  for  I 
suppose  that  is  the  secret  of  her  care  for  me." 

At  that  moment  a  slight  sound,  perhaps  a  moan,  came 
from  the  inner  room,  where  the  child  lay  in  the  stupor  of 
her  fever,  and  in  an  instant  Dorla  had  vanished.  After 
that,  all  was  silence,  but  Dorla  did  not  come  back.  At  length 
Felix  told  the  woman  to  go  down  to  her  breakfast.  She 
\vent  with  lively  interest,  and  in  a  glow  of  gratitude 
brought  him  up  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll,  before  she  ate  her 
own.  These  he  ate  with  a  relish,  but  with  a  little  shame 
that  he  could  do  so,  while  poor  Dorla  was  in  such  misery. 
He  was  afraid  she  would  come  out  while  the  coffee  cup  was 
at  his  lips.  It  was,  altogether,  an  absurd  position.  He  wai 
afraid,  at  the  same  time,  that  some  of  the  party  from  the 
hotel  would  arrive  abruptly.  He  also  thought  the  people  of 
the  house  might  think  it  odd  that  he  was -there.  All  these 
incongruities  and  their  little  goads,  struck  him  as  so  abomi- 
nable, in  view  of  the  suffering  of  the  poor  young  mother. 
He  knew  he  was  outside  of  that,  could  not  enter  into  it  by 
*ne  step.  He  wondered  if  that  other  man,  who  had  en- 
tangled his  fate  in  some  way  with  hers,  could  go  any  farther  •, 
if  he  really  could  feel  any  interest  in  the  child  for  hersel£ 
A.t  that  moment  Felix  would  have  been  very  glad  to  havt 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  355 

been  fond  of  Missy,  even  a  very  little  fond  of  her.  When 
his  roll  and  coffee  were  disposed  of,  he  put  the  cup  and  plate 
out  of  sight ;  and  feeling  so  much  refreshed,  began  to  won- 
der if  it  would  be  possible  to  induce  Dorla  to  eat  something 
But  she  did  not  come  out  into  the  parlor  again.  All  waa 
very  still ;  he  could  hear  the  quick  breathing  of  the  sick 
child,  but  that  was  all.  Bye  and  bye  Marie  came  back  ;  but 
she  shook  her  head  when  he  spoke  of  getting  her  mistress 
some  breakfast. 

"  Monsieur  does  not  know  Madame  Rothermel.  She  is 
ready  to  give  up  her  life  if  the  little  one  has  a  pulse  too 
many.  She  never  eats,  she  never  sleeps.  She  will  die  be- 
cause of  her  some  day." 

Marie  walked  about  the  rooms  softly,  and  at  last  got  her 
phlegmatic  sewing,  and  sat  down  at  a  window.  Felix  made 
himself  as  comfortable  as  he  could  at  another,  and  read  one 
of  Dorla's  pious  little  books.  He  was  outside  of  this  part 
of  her  life  too ;  no  wonder  that  she  did  not  care  for  him. 
He  could  have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  wish  that  he  were 
pious,  even  a  very  little  pious,  at  that  moment. 

Presently  the  doctor  came  back,  a  little  within  the  hour. 
Then  he  caught  another  sight  of  Dorla,  stony  calm,  as  she 
came  to  meet  him  at  the  door.  When  the  doctor  came  out 
from  the  bedroom  he  looked  a  little  disturbed.  He  told 
Felix  that  the  child  was  pretty  sick ;  the  remedies  didn't 
seem  to  take  effect.  He  should  have  to  wait  another  hour 
or  two  and  watch  the  effect  of  the  one  he  had  just  given. 
He  didn't  like  the  look  of  two  or  three  things  about  her.  * 

"  I  haven't  said  this  to  your  wife,"  remarked  the  Doctor, 
"  for  women  are  so  easily  alarmed." 

Felix  rather  angrily  explained  that  he  was  not  the 
husband  of  the  lady,  that  he  was  simply  a  member  of  a 
travelling  party,  the  rest  of  whom  were  at  the  hotel,  and 
that  he  was  only  waiting  there  to  see  if  he  could  be  of  use 
till  some  of  the  ladies  came  around. 

"  O,"  said  the  Doctor,  rather  put  aback.     Then  he  gatk 


356  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

ered  himself  up  professionally,  and  went  on  to  talk  of 
Missy's  state  and  prospects.  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you," 
he  said,  "  I  don't  altogether  like  her  symptoms.  It  has 
been  a  bad  season  for  children.  I  haven't  had  so  much  bad 
luck  in  years." 

At  this  moment  Dorla,  stony  calm,  came  walking  out  of 
the  bed-room,  having  left  Marie  by  the  unconscious  little 
sufferer.  She  went  towards  the  Doctor  and  said,  "  I  want 
to  know  just  how  it  is  with  the  child.  You  need  not 
deceive  me  ;  is  she  very  ill  ?  " 

The  Doctor,  misled  by  her  calmness,  said  uneasily, 
"  Well,  yes,  I  am  afraid  she  is ;  but  we've  only  got  to  wait 
and  watch  her  for  a  while." 

Then  Dorla  gave  him  a  wild,  appealing  look.  She  had 
not  expected  to  have  her  fears  confirmed,  for  she  had  told 
herself  it  was  only  her  foolish  over- fear,  and  that  if  she 
»sked  the  Doctor  he  would  reassure  her.  "  I  will  do  all  I 
can,"  he  said,  looking  away,  for  man-like  he  hated  to  see 
a  woman's  agitation. 

"  You  are  not  going,"  said  Dorla,  trying  to  command  her 
voice,  for  the  Doctor  was  getting  hold  of  his  hat  and  stick. 

"  Only  around  to  the  hotel  to  see  a  patient ;  I  will  be  back 
in  twenty  minutes,"  returned  the  Doctor,  who  was  most 
fervent  to  get  away  before  there  was  a  scene.  He  would 
have  suffered  less  in  taking  a  child's  leg  off  than  in  witness- 
ing a  woman's  tears.  For  the  child  could  have  ether  and 
the  woman  could  not ;  one  could  be  treated  professionally, 
and  the  other  could  not.  He  got  out  of  the  door  very 
quickly,  hoping  the  storm  would  expend  itself  while  he  was 
away. 

Dorla  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  gazing  out ;  but 
she  did  not  see  the  hot,  narrow  street,  nor  the  wide-open 
casements  of  the  houses  over  the  way.  Then  she  turned 
suddenly  and  said,  "  What  have  I  done  that  she  should  be 
taken  from  me  ?  "  There  was  no  intermediate  condition , 
the  never  hoped  where  she  had  any  excuse  for  despairing 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  357 

Missy  WES  going  to  die;  the  heavy  certainty  had  settled 
on  her  heart.  "  It  is  of  no  use  to  talk  to  me  of  trust,"  she 
said,  seeing  Felix  was  about  to  speak.  "  It  is  of  no  use. 
I  do  trust  that  I  shall  be  able  to  live  through  whatever 
comes.  But  why  should  I  trust  that  Missy  will  be  spared 
to  me  when  better  women  have  their  children  taken  from 
them.  God  does  right.  But  it  is  hard  to  suffer." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Felix,  "  why  you  let  yourself  titmk 
about  the  chance  of  losing  her.  There  are  many  chances 
that  she  may  recover.  You  are  only  weakening  yourself  by 
letting  in  this  imagination.  She  is  always  in  danger ; 
everybody  is.  You  might  as  well  any  day  give  yourself  up 
to  the  fancy  that  she  would  die  before  night.  Just  make  up 
your  mind  that  she  is  to  get  well.  It  will  not  alter  mattevs, 
for  he**,  and  it  will  save  you  pain." 

These  words  of  wisdom  fell  rather  coldly  on  poor  Dorla^ 
ears,  but  they  had  their  effect  in  somewhat  suppressing  if 
not  quieting  her  emotion. 

Another  moment  there  were  voices  heard  in  the  halL 
Mrs.  Bishop  and  Henry,  who  had  met  the  Doctor  in  the* 
street,  and  had  heard  from  the  servant  at  the  door  a  terrible* 
account  of  Missy,  came  hurrying  towards  the  room. 

"  O,"  said  Dorla,  "  if  they  only  wouldn't  come !  " 

But  before  she  had  said  it,  they  had  come. 

"  What  is  this,  my  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Bishop,  throwing 
her  arms  around  her.  <c  Why  have  you  not  sent  for  me  ?  " 

"Nobody  could  do  me  any  good,"  she  said  almost  sul- 
lenly, as  she  submitted  to  the  embrace. 

"  My  dear !  But  we  could  have  been  sorry  for  you>  at 
least." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorla,  turning  away.  "  I  suppose  so." 
Then  catching  sight  of  Henry,  who  had  not  spoken,  but  who 
stood  with  Lonest  grief  upon  his  face,  she  suddenly  broke 
down ;  and  stretching  out  her  hand  to  him,  said  brokenly, 
M  I  believe  you  would  care  if  she  did  not  get  well.  My 
poor  little  Mssy  !  O,  how  can  I  live  through  this  ?  " 


858  4  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

Henry  caught  her  hand  and  led  her  to  the  sofa.  Fella 
could  not  hear  what  he  said,  but  it  was  evidently  jnort 
acceptable  to  her  than  .his  wise  words  had  been. 

"Wisdom,  to  cure  a  broken  heart, 
Must  not  be  wisdom  preached." 

Henry  had  sympathy  where  he  had  only  pity.  Mrs.  Bishop 
and  he  had  not  loved  poor  little  Missy,  and  they  both  felt 
conscious  of  the  shortcoming.  But  Dorla  and  Henry  were 
not  aware  of  their  confusion.  They  could  only  think  of 
one  thing.  In  a  few  moments,  Henry  followed  Dorla  to 
the  door  of  Missy's  room ;  and,  horror  to  behold,  followed 
her,  after  a  moment's  pause,  into  the  room  and  oat  of  sight. 
Felix  walked  about  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  He 
knew  he  ought  to  go  away,  but  he  was  enraged  to  think  of 
Henry  left  in  charge.  Mrs.  Bishop  took  off  her  shawl  and 
gloves  and  settled  herself  in  an  easy -chair  as  if  she  meant 
to  be  permanent. 

"  This  is  a  sad  business,"  she  said  to  Felix,  with  a  sigh. 
"  There  is  no  knowing  how  long  we  may  have  to  stay,  even 
if  she  should  get  better." 

"  I  trust  there  is  no  question  about  that,"  returned  Felix, 
with  the  chilling  superiority  of  a  man  of  sense.  Mrs. 
Bishop  at  once  felt  ashamed  of  herself,  and  began  to  wonder 
whether  Missy  were  really  very  ill. 

"  But  the  Doctor,"  she  went  on  humbly.  "  The  Doctor 
seemed  to  think  it  was  pretty  serious." 

Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

At  this  moment  Henry  came  out  of  the  room,  with  a 
face  of  great  anxiety.  "  She  is  very  ill,  1  am  afraid," 
he  said,  going  up  to  his  aunt. 

"  Dear,  dear,  Henry,  this  is  a  dreadful  piece  of  work. 
[  wish  we  had  gone  home  a  week  ago." 

"It  is  time  the  Doctor  came,  I  should  think,"  said 
Henry,  looking  at  his  watch.  "Aunt  Hester,  if  there  is 
waything  you  want  frora  the  hotel,  Marie  can  go  round  and 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  859 

get  it.  I  of  coirse  shall  stay;  and  you  will  have  to  be 
here  all  the  time." 

"  Dear  me.  Yes,  of  course.  But  this  upsets  one  so. 
There  are  my  pills  to  take  at  twelve.  And  I  did  not  bring 
a  cap  ;  and  my  slippers — and  the  tonic — and  my  glasses — 
and  that  little  breakfast-shawl,  if  I  have  to  sit  by  a  win- 
dow—" 

"  I  should  think  Marie  could  get  them  all,"  said  Henry, 
anxiously,  ft  if  you  told  her  just  what  it  was  you  wanted." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Henry,  I  would  not  send  Marie  to  my 
trunk.  I  never  felt  confidence  in  that  woman." 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Rothermel  can  lend  you  the  things." 

"Her  slippers  would  not  fit  me." 

"  No,  of  course  they  wouldn't." 

"  And  I  am  suffering  torments  already  with  this  boot." 

At  this  moment  Dorla  came  out,  her  eyes  red  with  cry- 
ing. "  Hasn't  he  come  yet  ?  "  she  said.  That  meant  the 
Doctor. 

"  No,"  said  Henry,  looking  at  his  watch,  which  was  still  in 
his  hand. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  "  I  am  going  to  stay  with 
you  of  course,  and  I  was  just  arranging  with  Henry.  Now 
don't  you  think  you  could  go  to  another  room,  and  rest  a 
little  while,  and  let  me  sit  by  Missy ;  you  look  so  very 
tired." 

"  No  !  oh,  no  !  "  cried  Dorla,  as  she  started  backward  to 
the  door.  "  I  don't  want  to  rest.  And  I  am  sure  yor> 
leedn't  stay." 

"  Of  course  I  shall,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  with  great  firm- 
ness. "  I  shall  not  leave  you  while  she  is  so  sick.  And  I 
am  talking  of  sending  Marie  around  to  get  some  things." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Dorla,  wearily,  retreating  to  the  door. 

"  I  wish  I  could  avoid  it  though.  I  suppose  you  haven't 
juch  a  thing  as  a  light  worsted  shawl  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dorla,  looking  distressed,  l<  Marie 
will  «ae." 


860  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

t(  And  the  slippers,  of  course  you  haven't  any  that  would 
do.  I  really  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  send  Marie  for  tbf 
slippers,  if  for  nothing  else.  These  walking-boots  are  so  un 
comfortable.  I  suppose  it  is  the  warm  weather." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Bishop,  don't  stay;  really  I  do  not  need 
anything.  Henry  will  be  here,  and  that  is  really  all  I 
need." 

At  this  moment  the  doctor  entered,  and  Felix  took  occa- 
sion to  withdraw,  washing  his  hands  of  the  whole  business. 
It  was  the  very  last  chapter  of  his  interference  and  his  hopes. 
If  the  child  died,  she  would  marry  Henry  from  gratitude ;  ii 
she  lived,  she  would  marry  him  from  duty.  A  woman  that 
had  set  her  heart  upon  sacrificing  herself,  might  as  well  be 
let  alone ;  there  was  not  any  hope  of  turning  her. 

For  the  next  two  days  there  was  a  great  doubt 
about  poor  Missy.  Mrs.  Bishop  never  got  away  for  a 
moment,  and  Marie  and  Mrs.  Glover  had  to  be  trusted  to 
get  the  tonic,  and  the  slippers,  and  many  additional  details  of 
comfort.  Henry  was  not  seen  at  the  hotel,  and  Abby  with 
amiable  merriment  wondered  if  he  carried  up  Mrs.  Kothei- 
mel's  meals  to  her  and  fed  her  with  a  spoon.  But  while  a 
woman's  child  is  lying  in  danger  of  death  she  is  not  apt  to 
give  much  thought  to  meals  and  spoons  as  connected  with 
herself,  nor  to  the  appearances  of  things  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  That  Mrs.  Bishop  was  there,  in  her  heavy  imbecility, 
for  the  purpose  of  making  it  proper  that  Henry  should  be 
in  the  chamber  of  anguish  beside  the  unconscious  sufferer, 
never  entered  Dorla's  brain.  There  was  no  room  for  that. 
The  doctor  was  there  many  times  a  day.  The  people  in  the 
house  were  very  kind.  The  weather  was  unbearably  hot. 
Mrs.  Glover  came  often,  but  rarely  saw  Dorla,  and  Abby,  if 
she  had  not  had  the  companionship  of  Felix  and  a  party  of 
friends  recently  arrived,  would  have  been  much  bored. 

"  How  is  the  little  thing  ?  "  she  would  say  to  her  mother 
as  she  came  in  from  a  drive  and  drew  off  her  glovf-s  sitting 
town  vx>  lunch.  And  Felix  could  not  forgive  her  that  she 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  361 

iometimes  spoke  to  the  waiter  about  the  cold  chicken  before 
she  heard  her  mother's  answer.  What  a  good  appetite  she 
had.  How  merry  her  laugh  was.  And  how  handsome  she 
looked.  Felix  wondered  whether  she  would  ever  bend  over 
a  little  child  in  a  fever  and  forget  cold  chicken  and  lockets 
and  round  hats  and  the  opinion  of  the  world. 

But  after  two  days  of  this  suspense,  Missy  suddenly  rallied, 
and  without  explanation  began  to  get  well.  The  doctor 
could  not  account  for  it;  it  was  probably  one  of  those 
unheralded  attacks  of  fever  to  which  many  children  are 
subject  while  they  are  "  amang  the  teeth,"  as  the  Scotch  say. 
It  was  very  possible  that  she  had  not  been  in  as  great  danger 
as  she  appeared.  Every  one,  a  little  out  of  temper,  began 
to  be  peevish  about  the  fright  she  had  given  them.  Mrs. 
Bishop  came  back  to  the  hotel,  slippers  and  all,  and  felt  that 
she  had  been  wronged.  Felix  felt  that  Abby  had  been  the 
wisest  of  them  not  to  let  anything  interfere  with  the  cold 
chicken.  Mrs.  Glover  sneered  at  the  doctor,  and  did  not 
believe  she  should  have  been  deceived  a  moment  if  she  had 
been  admitted  to  the  child.  Even  Henry  came  back,  looking 
worn  out  and  indifferent,  and  went  to  his  room  and  slept 
hours  on  the  stretch.  Only  Missy's  mother  did  not  blame 
her  for  the  unnecessary  expenditure  of  emotion  incurred  by 
her  illness  and  recovery.  She  felt  indeed  bruised  and 
wounded,  as  if  she  had  been  cast  up  on  the  hard  shore  of 
every-day,  aft^r  a  desperate  storm  that  had  been  beyond  her 
strength  ;  she  could  have  the  joy  of  reason  not  the  joy  of 
feeling,  after  such  a  struggle. 

Missy  was  troublesome  as  a  convalescent.  But  then  she 
was  troublesome  in  all  estates  and  conditions.  Her  exactions 
alone  would  have  prevented  those  about  her  from  feeling 
unalloyed  happiness  in  the  sight  of  her  recovery.  Marie 
made  no  secret  of  her  feelings  and  gave  warning  publicly. 
"  As  soon  as  we  reach  home,  Madame  will  please  look  out 
another  maid  for  Missy."  This  is  such  pleasant  news  to 
bear,  two  or  three  hundred  miles  from  home,  and  with  a  sick 
16 


862  ^  PERFECT  ADONI& 

child  upon  your  hands.  A  servant  of  Bourse,  undei  them 
circumstances,  feels  that  she  has  discharged  her  conscience 
when  she  has  said  this,  and  seeks  no  more  to  please  or 
mollify.  Though  it  was  the  best  thing  that  had  happened 
to  Missy  for  a  long  time,  to  get  rid  of  Marie,  Dorla  took  it 
quite  to  heart.  She  had  a  great  dread  of  strange  faces  about 
her,  and  would  have  endured  the  dull-eyed  Marie  to  the  end 
of  1  ime  rather  than  have  made  the  change. 

A  week  after  Missy's  illness,  Dorla  was  so  dejected  that 
she  had  to  remind  herself  what  she  had  escaped,  in  order  to 
be  thankful.  On  the  day  before,  Missy  had  driven  out ;  she 
was  unmistakably  as  well  as  she  ever  had  been.  This  morn- 
ing, she  was  to  be  taken  to  sit  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
Governor's  Garden  across  the  way,  when  a  hasty  summons 
came  from  Mrs.  Bishop.  Dorla,  establishing  her  with  Marie, 
in  the  Garden,  went  hurriedly  around  to  the  hotel.  In  her 
own  room,  she  found  Mrs.  Bishop  in  much  agitation;  a 
despatch  had  just  been  received,  which  Henry  was  even  now 
answering,  communicating  the  news  of  the  severe  illness  of 
Henry's  mother,  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Bishop.  They  were  to 
start  in  the  train  at  one  o'clock.  Dorla  surely  would  go 
with  them  ?  There  was  but  one  answer  to  that,  but  it  took 
a  long  while  to  convince  Mrs.  Bishop  that  it  must  be. 
Missy  could  not  take  such  a  journey.  Dorla  was  down  on 
her  knees  packing  Mrs.  Bishpp's  trunk  while  she  said  ttds. 
The  poor  old  lady  was  quite  unnerved. 

('  I  am  sure  there  is  no  time  to  lose,"  said  Dorla,  folding 
up  a  wrapper. 

"  Henry  said  we  must  not  waste  time,"  she  said.  "  Poor 
Henry  !  Dorla,  I  think  you  ought  to  go." 

"  I  wish  it  were  possible,"  she  returned,  "  for  your  suke. 
But  it  cannot  be.  Dear  Mrs.  Bishop,  which  hat  shall  you 
put  on?" 

"  The  black  straw.     I  may  need  my  crape  one  fresh.     Oh, 
dear !    But  when  shall  you  come  home  yourself  ?  and 
will  you  get  home  alone?  " 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  363 

"  O,  I  shall  manage  some  way.  The  others — are  all  going, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so.  It  was  all  quite  hurried — but  I  think 
the  Glovers  are  very  tired  of  Quebec.  And  I  think  Felix 
only  wanted  an  excuse  to  get  away.  He  and  Abby  are  out 
now,  paying  some  bills  and  getting  some  things  they  had 
ordered,  and  Mrs.  Glover  is  busy  packing.  Lunch  at  twelve, 
you  know.  And  dear  me,  it  is  now  nearly  half-past  eleven !  " 

At  quarter  before  twelve  the  trunk  was  packed,  the 
shawls  strapped,  and  while  Mrs.  Bishop  sat  down  by  the 
window  and  fanned  herself  and  cried  softly,  Henry  entered 
the  room,  looking  pale  and  harassed.  He  showed  surprise 
at  seeing  Dorla. 

"  I  have  been  in  Mt.  Carmel  Street  and  through  the  Gar- 
den, looking  for  you,"  he  said. 

Then  Mrs.  Bishop  upbraided  him  for  this  waste  of  time, 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  sent  the  telegram  and  paid  the  bill 
and  engaged  the  omnibus  and  ordered  the  lunch.  The  worm 
turned  at  thisa  and  said  that  was  his  business,  if  she  would 
only  attend  to  her  part.  Thus  grief  affects  the  most  amiable 
minds.  Mrs.  Bishop  cried  more  at  this,  and  said  she  felt  a 
presentiment  she  should  never  live  through  this  dreadful 
journey.  She  even  spoke  reproachfully  of  Missy's  illness, 
which  alone  had  kept  them  from  going  home  a  week  ago. 
She  was  as  unreasonable  as  a  woman  of  any  age  can  be. 

u  We  are  wasting  time.  You  are  positive  you  cannot 
go  ?  "  said  Henry  to  Dorla. 

He  had  no  hope  that  she  could,  but  he  gave  her  a  very 
appealing  look  as  he  spoke.  The  worst  of  poor  Henry  wap, 
he  was  so  genuine.  He  looked  all  he  felt :  a  mother  dying, 
a  sweetheart  to  be  left  behind.  His  face  expressed  those 
(acts. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  "Trunks  ready?" 
Another,  with  the  bill.  Another,  with  a  telegram.  Tho 
next  fifteen  minutes  were  a  turmoil.  At  twelve,  Dorla  took 
Mrs.  Bishop  down  to  lunch,  Henry  being  absent  on  some  of 


364  A  PERFECT  ADONJ8. 

the  endless  business  of  preparation.  Soon  .the  Glo\ers  came 
in,  and  then  Felix,  not  in  any  hurry,  and  then  Henry,  white 
and  in  a  hurry  too.  Poor  fellow,  he  could  not  eat  anything. 
Felix  said  it  was  rather  early  for  lunch,  but  ate  some  soup. 
Abby,  who  was  in  high  spirits,  called  for  her  favorite  cold 
chicken. 

"  You  have  concluded  not  to  go,"  said  Felix  to  Dorla, 
who  sat  watching  Mrs.  Bishop's  efforts  at  a  meal. 

"  O  yes." 

"  And  how  is  the  little  girl  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal  better,  thank  you." 

"  Well,"  said  Abby,  "  I  hope  you  will  pay  us  the  compli- 
ment of  missing  us." 

"  Abby,"  cried  her  mother,  with  a  sudden  misgiving, 
known  only  to  women  on  a  journey  ;  "  did  you  lock  the  can- 
vas-covered trunk  ?  " 

"  O,  what  a  shock  you  gave  me !  Yes,  of  course  I  locked 
it.  Here's  the  key." 

"  There  !  There !  "  cried  Mrs.  Glover,  "  those  photo- 
graphs at  the  shop  opposite.  I  knew  there  was  something 
that  I  had  forgotten." 

"  Let  me  go  for  them,"  said  Dorla,  getting  up,  "  while 
you  all  get  your  lunch." 

There  was  a  hubbub  and  a  discussion  about  permitting 
her  to  go,  and  then  a  catalogue  raisonne  of  the  photographs  ; 
and  then  Dorla  got  away.  In  a  moment  Henry  arose, 
saying  he  must  see  about  the  omnibus,  and  followed  her. 
Felix  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  Abby  laughed. 

"  It  would  be  too  bad,"  she  said,  "  not  to  have  had  a 
ohance  to  say  good-bye.  But  I  hope  he  won't  forget  about 
the  omnibus."  Felix,  from  the  parlor  window,  a  few  minutes 
jater,  saw  Dorla  and  Henry  come  out  of  the  shop,  silent, 
and  both  rather  pale. 

"  Well,  did  you  get  the  photographs  ?  "  said  Abby,  meet- 
ing them  at  the  door.  Mrs.  .Rothermel  had  the  package, 
and  told  her  the  prices  she  had  paid,  without  any  appear 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  365 

jtnce  of  indecision.     But  poor  Henry  wa&  not  so  self-pos- 


"  When  will  the  omnibus  come  around  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Bishop ?  "I  will  go  and  see  about  it,"  he  answered,  turn- 
ing towards  the  door. 

"That  is  just  as  I  supposed,"  cried  Abby.  "  He  hasn't 
been  to  order  it,  and  we  shall  all  be  left."  Such  a  thought 
put  Mrs.  Bishop  in  great  excitement.  She  insisted  that 
Felix  should  go  and  see  about  the  omnibus  himself. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  bid  you  all  good-bye,"  said  Dorla, 
quickly,  as  soon  as  he  went  away.  "  I  cannot  do  you  any 
more  good,  and  I  have  left  Missy  longer  than  I  ought  al- 
ready. You  will  not  be  off  for  fifteen  minutes  yet." 
Thereupon  Mrs.  Bishop  was  agitated  again,  but  the 
adieux  were  hurried  through,  and  Dorla  left  the  three  ladies 
in  the  parlor  and  went  down  the  stairs.  At  the  foot  of 
them  she  met  Felix. 

"  You  are  going  ?  "  he  said,  taking  off  his  hat  and  stand- 
Lag  aside  for  her  to  pass. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  can't  be  away  from  Missy  any  longer." 

"  Well,  good-bye,  then,"  he  said,  putting  out  his  hand. 
"  I  hope  Missy  will  continue  to  improve." 

"  Thank  you  !  Good-bye,"  said  Dorla,  giving  her  hand 
without  looking  up,  and  in  a  moment  half  a  dozen  people 
%«-ere  between  her  and  him,  and  she  passed  out  of  the  door 
into  the  midday  heat,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  disenchant- 
ment. And  so  it  was  all  over.  And  this  was  the  end. 
And  how  hot  the  pavements  were  ;  and  how  steep  the 
street.  Missy  must  be  wanting  her  gruel.  And  this  was 
the  end.  What  else  had  she  looked  for,  she  said  ;  and  yet 
.t  seemed  miserably  prosaic.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  im- 
patience and  of  shame  that  she  pulled  the  brass  bell-handle 
jit  the  door  of  her  lodgings.  It  was  so  hot  to  stand  there 
while  the  servant  cleaned  her  last  knife,  or  laid  her  last 
plate.  Every  one  took  Lis  or  her  time  in  Quebec.  But  no 
me  had  ei  er  been  blamed  for  it  before  by  Dorla.  Every- 


366  A  PERFECT  ADON18. 

thing  Jraggsd  and  worried  to-day.  There  was  Missy's  gruel 
nt  twelve,  and  her  chop  at  two,  and  her  nap  at  three,  and 
ht,r  walk  at  five,  and  her  tea  at  six,  and  at  seven  her  going 
to  bed.  And  between  them  all,  a  good  deal  of  story-telling, 
and  entertaining  and  exercising  of  patience.  But  through  it 
all,  Dorla  felt  a  weariness  that  was  unusual,  almost  a  want 
of  interest  in  what  had  been,  and  what  she  had  chosen 
should  be,  her  life.  Missy,  finally,  was  soothed  to  sleep ; 
the  room  seemed  warm  and  close  to  Dorla,  as  she  stole  out 
from  it  into  the  fresher  air  of  the  parlor.  There  the  large 
windows  were  open,  and  all  was  very  still.  She  walked 
about  the  room,  and  failed  to  interest  herself  in  anything. 
After  all,  it  did  feel  lonely  to  be  in  a  strange  city  without  a 
single  friend.  She  had  called  them  bores,  sometimes,  but 
she  would  really  be  glad  to  see  Mrs.  Bishop  coming  in,  with 
her  cap  in  her  hand,  and  her  slippers  in  her  pocket.  Inde- 
pendence and  time  to  rest  your  brain  are  all  very  well,  but 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  having  too  much  of  them.  <c  What 
should  I  do  if  Missy  should  be  ill  again  ? "  she  thought. 
She  wondered  how  far  they  were  upon  their  journey,  and 
she  took  the  "  Railway  Guide  "  to  the  window,  and  studied 
it  out  in  the  dim  light,  and  really  hurt  her  eyes.  Then  she 
leaned  upon  the  casement,  and  wondered  how  they  were  all 
sitting,  and  what  they  were  all  doing.  Felix  and  Abby 
together,  no  doubt,  feeding  upon  endless  courses  of  cara- 
mels and  grapes,  pears  and  sandwiches,  macaroons  and 
sardines.  All  that  was  incongruous,  and  that  was  portable, 
it  was  fair  to  suppose,  formed  part  of  their  refreshment. 
Abby  would  be  laughing  at  every  one  in  the  cars,  and  Felix 
would  look  as  if  he  did  not  object,  and  was  quite  willing  to 
be  entertained.  Mis.  Glover  would  be  sitting  alone  sur- 
rounded by  the  shawls  and  bags,  and  Mrs.  Bishop  and  poor 
Henry  would  be  silently  watching  the  telegraph  poles  and 
barren,  cheerless  lands.  "  Poor  Honry !  "  thought  Dorla, 
vrith  a  sigh.  "  It  is  so  seldom  a  man  feels  that  way." 
"  That  way  "  meant  a  goo^l  deal.  After  a,  while,  she  began 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  361 

to  think  a  walk  would  be  so  much  better  than  staying  in  the 
house.  But  it  was  getting  dark.  The  more  she  thought  of 
the  matter,  the  more  she  wanted  to  go  to  take  a  walk. 
Alas  !  There  was  no  one  to  go  with  her. 

"  I  shall  have  a  headache  if  I  do  not  go,"  she  said,  and 
Uaving  thought  so  much  about  it,  the  room  felt  very  stifling. 
''  At  my  age,"  she  thought,  "  what  difference  can  it  make  ?  " 
and  throwing  something  about  her  shoulders  she  stole  out, 
calling  Marie  to  watch  Missy.  At  the  door  she  had  to  pass 
through  a  file  of  young  Englishmen,  smoking  peacefully  in 
the  summer  twilight.  Dorla  had  to  remind  herself  how  old 
she  was,  not  to  be  embarrassed.  She  had  seen  them  some 
times  at  the  table.  They  were  tall,  awkward,  gentle,  un 
gainly,  like  most  young  Englishmen.  They  would  not  have 
harmed  a  hair  of  her  head,  or  thrown  one  impertinent  glance 
after  her,  but  it  made  her  quite  uncomfortable  to  pass  out 
before  them.  She  went  down  the  street  and  into  the  Gov- 
ernor's Garden.  It  was  cool  and  quiet  there,  with  a  faint 
smell  from  the  damp  shaded  earth,  and  from  the  beds  of 
common  garden  flowers  in  bloom.  She  walked  slowly  along 
the  paths,  feeling  refreshed  by  the  air.  But  the  trees 
drooped  rather  low  over  her  head.  It  was  growing  pretty 
dark,  and  the  silence  made  it  even  more  lonely.  As  she 
came  out  by  the  monument  it  was  lighter,  and  she  went 
down  to  the  gate  and  leaned  against  the  fence,  and  gazed 
over  the  tree  tops  and  the  river  to  where  the  lights  of  Point 
Levis  were  gleaming  faintly  out  of  the  twilight.  Presently, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  came  by  two  young 
Canadian  girls,  with  pretty  faces,  but  dressed  in  Anglican 
taste.  They  were  going  towards  Durham  Terrace,  to  meet,  no 
doubt,  some  square-shouldered  military  hero,  for  they  looked 
expectant,  shy  and  happy. 

**  The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear ; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high 
Sings  high-born  cavalier." 


368  -A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

Dorla  blushod  when  she  found  this  vei  je  wandering  through 
her  thoughts,  accompanied  by  a  regret  at  the  certainty  that 
she  had  no  suit  to  hear,  nor  song.  What  reflection  for  a  per- 
Bon  of  her  age ;  for  the  mother  of  a  family,  (no  matter  how 
small  a  family.)  She  tried  to  shake  the  feeling  off,  ana 
walked  quickly  up  and  down  the  path  to  change  the  current 
of  her  thoughts.  But  soon  she  was  standing  by  the  gate 
again;  dreaming  again  and  vaguely  sad.  No  doubt,  she 
looked  pretty  and  graceful,  for  two  good-looking,  black-eyed 
Frenchmen  who  were  passing,  turned  and  repassed,  gazing 
at  her.  It  was  not  till  they  had  passed  her  a  third  time  that 
she  saw  them,  and  became  aware  of  their  impertinent  looks. 
Then  she  started,  and  in  much  fright  took  the  nearest  path 
towards  the  upper  end  of  the  garden.  She  was  certain  that 
they  were  following  her,  though  she  dared  not  stop  to  listen 
for  their  steps.  The  garden  now  was  very  dim  indeed,  the 
path  a  little  rough.  Her  feet  stumbled;  she  nearly  fell 
against  a  bench  that  stood  beside  the  way.  tl  I  should  not 
have  come  out,"  she  thought,  nearly  crying.  "  Age  doesn't 
make  any  difference.  All  my  life  I  shall  have  to  stay  at 
home,  since  I  haven't  courage  to  stand  things  like  these,  and 
haven't  anybody  to  take  care  of  me." 

There  were  steps  behind  her  surely.  At  a  turn  of  the 
path  where  another  path  intersected  it,  she  caught  sight  of 
a  dark  figure  coming  towards  her.  Whether  to  be  more 
afraid  of  this  than  of  the  two  behind  her,  she  knew  not.  It 
might  be  another  black-eyed  Frenchman  like  the  others. 
She  was  sheer  bewildered,  and  began  to  run. 

"  What  is  the  matter,"  said  this  new  terror,  instantly  be- 
side her,  notwithstanding  all  her  running.  She  stopped  and 
panted.  "  Has  anything  frightened  you  ?  " 

"  You  !  "  she  said,  stretching  out  her  hands  in  a  sort  of 
oyful  confusion ;  for  it  was  Felix  Varian. 

"  Yes,"  said  Felix.  "  What  are  you  doing  out  so  lata 
•done?" 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  369 

"  I  don't  know.  I  came  out  for  a  walk ;  I  was — lone- 
ftome,  you  know.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

"  But  what  were  you  nmning  for  ?  "  asked  Felix. 

"  There  were  two  Frenchmen,"  she  said,  looking  back, 
u  who  followed  me  up  from  the  gate.  But  they  are  gone." 

"  Let  us  go  back  and  look  for  them,"  said  Felix,  for  the^ 
had  nearly  reached  the  upper  gate. 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied,  laughing  a  little  nervously,  foi 
she  felt  very  safe  now.  So  they  turned,  and  she  began  to 
wonder  how  her  arm  got  in  her  companion's.  In  the  agita- 
tion of  meeting  him,  she  had  probably  given  him  both  hands 
and  he  had  kept  one,  and  put  it  on  his  arm.  She  could  not 
remember ;  it  was  rather  irregular,  b\it  very  protected  and 
pleasant.  The  garden  did  not  seem  particularly  dark  now, 
but  only  dim  and  pleasant.  Some  lights  had  been  lit  in  the 
street  beyond,  and  they  gleamed  faintly  through  the  foliage. 

"But  tell  me,"  she  said,  gradually  recovering  herself, 
"  how  you  happened  to  be  here  ?  1  thought  you  were  a  hun- 
dred miles  away." 

"I  met  some  friends  at  the  last  moment,"  said  Felix, 
"  who  persuaded  me  to  stay." 

"  Oh,"  said  Dorla,  with  a  little  vague  disappointment  in 
her  voice. 

"  Besides,"  said  Felix,  detecting  the  intonation,  "  I  didn't 
like  the  idea  of  your  being  left  quite  alone  in  this  strange 


"  I  don't  believe  you  stayed  at  all  for  that,"  she  said. 

"  Then  you  prefer  to  believe  that  I  stayed  from  the  per- 
suasions  of  my  friends  ?  If  I  only  knew  positively  which 
vou  preferred,  I  almost  think  T  would  tell  you  the  truth." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  they  walked  on  silently  a  little 
while.  Here  it  was  lighter,  and  they  stood  beside  the  monu- 
ment. 

"  I  do  not  see  your  Frenchmen,"  said,Felix. 

"  No,"  said  Dorla,  slipping  her  arm  a  little  further  onit  ol 
Ids.  "  They  were  afraid  of  you  and  have  gone  away." 


370  A  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

"  I  think  you  are  not  strong-minded,  Mrs. 
Baid  Felix,  pulling  some  leaves  off  a  bush  beside  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  returned  Dorla,  with  a  sigh.  She 
wondered  what  he  would  think  if  he  knew  what  had  been 
her  thoughts  as  she  stood  there  by  the  gate,  ten  minutes  ago, 
envying  the  little  Canadian  girls  going  to  the  terrace.  She 
did  not  envy  them  particularly  now. 

tl  Shall  we  go  to  the  terrace  ?  "  he  said,  as  if  he  knew  what 
she  was  thinking  of. 

"  O,  no,"  returned  Dorla.  "  There  are  so  many  people, 
and  it  is  too  late." 

So  they  walked  about  the  garden,  talking  little. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  care  about  knowing  why  I  really 
stayed,"  said  Felix,  in  rather  a  forced  way — after  a  silence 
of  a  minute  or  two. 

"  O,  I  care,  yes,"  she  said,  rather  confused.  "  But  peo- 
ple that  have  so  many  reasons — " 

"  But  there  must  be  one  that  is  the  reason." 

"  I  don't  know  why.  They  all  mix  up,  and  if  they  hap 
pen  to  go  one  way,  you  follow." 

"I  particularly?" 

"  O,  no,  I,  you,  anybody." 

u  Then  you  think  that  I  have  no  one  reason  that  keeps  me 
in  Quebec.  Now  I  do  assure  you  that  I  have.  Do  you 
want  to  hear  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  no.     I — I  don't  know  that  it's  necessary." 

"  Very  well.     Then  I  will  not  tell  you." 

"  But  you  might  tell  me  instead — how  long  you  are  going 
to  stay  in  Quebec." 

"  That,  oh,  I  should  have  to  ask  you.  You  know  better 
than  I  how  long  I  am  to  stay." 

Dorla  found  assurance  enough  to  shrug  her  shoulders,  and 
look  unmoved  under  the  light  of  the  lamp  near  the  entrance. 
They  turned  and  walked  back  infeo  the  garden  without  speak- 
ing.  It  was  the  second  time  to-day  that  Dorla  had  had  a 
t  't  pleaded- -if  this  were  a  suit.  But  what  diverse  suitors,' 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  371 

Perfect  Adonises  make  love  very  differently  from  Henry 
Btanfields,  pale  and  passion-mute.  But  was  this  making  loye 
at  all  ?  She  did  not  clearly  see.  Perhaps  it  was  only  his  in- 
sufferable arrogance  once  more  ;  perhaps  her  eager  welcome 
of  him  had  inspired  him  with  a  fancy  to  revive  her  memory 
of  the  past.  So  gradually,  very  gradually,  her  hand  slid 
further  and  further  from  his  arm,  and  in  a  feint  of  gathering 
up  her  dress,  freed  itself  at  last  entirely. 

"  They  do  not  keep  the  paths  in  very  good  order  in  this 
old  garden,"  she  said,  in  extenuation  of  her  fault,  which 
she  felt  to  be  a  fault  as  soon  as  it  was  done. 

"  Not  very,"  said  Felix,  distantly.  And  they  walked  on 
in  silence.  When  they  had  reached  the  centre  of  t-he  gar- 
den again,  they  passed  quite  close  to  a  seat,  standing  near 
the  walk,  under  the  low  boughs  of  a  tree. 

"  Shall  we  emulate  the  servant-maids,  and  sit  down 
awhile  ?  "  said  Felix. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  cold,"  said  Dorla. 

And  Felix  said :  "  Are  you  ?  "  in  a  tone  that  made  hei 
very  quickly  sit  down. 

The  smell  of  the  flowers,  and  the  softness  of  the  air,  made 
it  absurd  to  talk  of  being  cold.  She  had  better  have  said 
too  warm,  though  it  was  not  that.  A  faint  sound  of  city- 
life  came  to  them — wheels  rolling  over  the  stony  pavement, 
the  distant  striking  of  a  bell ;  but  so  far  away,  it  seemed  to 
add  to  the  stijlnoss  rather  than  take  from  it. 

"  It  does  not  beeru  like  being  in  a  city,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  he  returned,  absently. 

"  I  think  there  is  a  fascination  in  the  street-lamps,  even, 
jf  this  place,  though  1  don't  know  what  it  is.  I  bought  a 
picture  of  one  the  other  day,  and  am  studying  to  see  what 
makes  it  more  agreeable  to  the  eye  than  those  we  see  at 
»ome." 

This  Dorla  said  vainly  trying  to  speak  with  indiffer- 
ence, and  to  find  things  to  talk  about  that  would  seem  iiatu 
ral.  Felix  would  not  take  any  notice  of  the  street-lamps 


372  4  PERFECT  &DON18. 

Then  she  was  silenced  by  her  own  embarrassment ,  and  noth« 
ing  was  attempted  in  the  way  of  conversation.  Bye  and 
bye  a  policeman  came  by,  and  she  hoped  that  her  companion 
would  take  it  as  a  suggestion,  and  would  look  as  if  he  were 
willing  to  go.  She  said  at  last,  as  tho  policeman's  rtepfl 
died  away  down  the  path  : 

"  Hadn't  we  better  go  ?     Maybe  they  lock  up  the  garden.'' 

"  Maybe  they  do,"  said  Felix,  not  moving,  however. 

"And  we  shouldn't  like  to  be  a  pair  of  Goody-two- 
shoeses,"  exclaimed  Dorla,  with  desperate  levity,  half-rising. 

But  as  her  dress  had  swept  across  the  bench  when  they 
sat  down,  Felix's  boot  was  on  some  of  the  flounces,  and  as 
he  did  not  move,  she  had  to  sink  back,  a  prisoner. 

"  You  are  on  my  dress,  please,"  she  said  quickly,  and 
half-frightened. 

"  Mrs.  Rothermel,"  he  began  abruptly,  not  noticing  what 
she  said,  "  we  have  wasted  a  great  deal  of  time  already, 
don't  you  think  so  ?  Four  or  five  years,  it  seems  to  me, 
And  I  think  we  ought  to  understand  each  other." 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  ought,"  she  returned,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  said,  and  trembling  very  much. 

"  Sometimes  I  have  imagined  that  you  had  nothing  to  say 
to  me  that  would  give  me  any  pleasure ;  but  lately  I  have 
begun  to  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  all.  I  don't  want  to 
revive  the  past ;  there  is  a  great  deal  that  is  very  painful. 
But  you  know,  at  least,  that  you  were  very  hard  upon  me. 
when  you  sent  me  away  without  a  word,  when  I  had  come 
back  to  you  the  very  moment  that  I  heard  that  you  were 
free.  I  should  not  be  half  a  man  if  I  had  sought  you  after 
that.  I  resolved  never  to  look  upon  ycur  face  again,  and  I 
do  not  blame  myself;  but  fate  threw  me  with  you  once 
more,  and  I  cannot  help  the  result.  I  prided  mysolf  on 
having  forgotten  you,  but  it  seems  I  had  not." 

"  You  feigned  it  very  well,"  she  said  unsteadily,  [t  is 
andermining  to  show  jealousy  and  to  speak  unsteadily  Ht 
aaught  her  hand. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  373 

"  I  want  to  go,"  she  cried,  trying  to  free  herself,  and  to 
rise. 

•v 

"  And  I  want  you  to  stay,"  he  said,  "  till  you  have  given 
me  my  answer." 


[HERE  was  a  second  wedding-day;  this  time  n« 
white  silk  and  orange  blossoms ;  nc  dull  elderly 
people  in  the  way,  and  no  sraell  of  fried  oysters. 
Dorla  and  Felix  walked  down  the  long  aisle  of  a  silent, 
crowded  church.  (To  fill  it  had  been  Harriet's  business  and 
pleasure.)  There  might  have  been  ten  or  ten  thousand  peo- 
ple, it  would  have  been  the  same  to  Dorla  ;  she  walked  be- 
side the  man  she  loved  through  this  gay  crowd,  as  she  would 
have  walked  through  a  forest,  or  through  a  flowering  garden. 
There  was  a  dreamy  look  on  her  face ;  she  plainly  was  not 
occupied  with  the  thought  of  how  her  dress  hung,  nor  how 
her  back  hair  would  look  from  the  chancel  steps.  She  even 
forgot  to  hold  her  bouquet  in  a  tight  grasp  against  her  waist, 
but  walked  past  the  attentive  spectators,  with  the  unfortu- 
nate flowers  trailing  against  her  dress,  as  they  hung  in  her 
hand.  She  wore  pearl-color,  and  her  dress  was  beautiful. 

"  She  looks  youngish  for  a  person  of  her  age,"  said  Abby 
to  a  cavalier  beside  her,  who  was  gaping  after  the  beautiful 
apparition  on  her  way  to  the  foot  of  the  altar. 

Abby  had  not  dared  to  speak  while  they  passed  her,  but 
now,  under  cover  of  the  prayers,  she  talked  incessantly. 
She  hated  the  prayers,  and  meant  to  laugh  at  everything ; 
she  no  longer  looked  as  if  the  world  lay  before  her,  but  as  if 
she  had  passed  through  one  very  dreary  and  hateful  part  of 
it,  and  as  i£;.she  were  resolved  to  g£.in  a  reckless  enjoyment 
from  the  present.  She  looked  years  older  than  she  was,  and 
nuch  like  other  women  now,  for  prettiness.  The  charm  of 
freshnt'^s  was  quite  gone.  During  the  benediction,  she 
talked  in  a  stage  whisper  about  the  bride's  bonnet ;  but 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  375 

when  they  passed  down  the  aisle  beside  her,  she  drew  her 
breath  quick;  that  Quebec  experience  had  gone  deep. 
There  walked  the  man  to  whom  in  his  perfect  beauty  she 
had  given  her  heart ;  and  in  a  certain  way,  a  woman  has  but 
one  heart  to  give.  She  did  not  love  him  now ;  but  she 
could  never  be  the  same  again,  for  having  loved  him. 

When  the  newly  married  people  had  passed  out  of  the 
church,  the  assembly  relaxed  its  attention,  and  broke  up  in 
babble  and  confusion.  Miss  Greyson,  in  a  waterproof  suit 
and  felt  hat,  was  joined  by  Mr.  Oliver,  well  preserved,  and  un- 
impaired by  time  or  by  emotion.  Miss  Greyson's  father  had 
failed,  and  she  had  been  permitted  to  teach  school,  and  to 
attend  medical  lectures,  and  to  do  every  strong-minded  thing 
that  hen  soul  delighted  in.  She  held  Dorla  in  great  contempt. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Oliver,"  she  said,  *'  you  see  what  it  is  to  be 
constant." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Greyson,"  he  returned.  "  It  has  been  the 
error  of  my  life  to  take  the  first  answer." 

And  so  on,  pages  of  old-bachelory  talk.  He  felt  sure  Miss 
Gre}f3Oii  did  not  know  that  he  had  once  offered  himself  to 
Dorla  ;  indeed  he  could  hardly  believe  it  now  himself.  It  was 
quite  safe  to  talk  to  Miss  Greyson  in  'this  way.  He  had 
talked  so  forty  times,  indeed  he  always  talked  so,  and  no 
one  would  suspect  where  the  truth  lay. 

Mr.  Davis,  who  had  been  married  several  years,  and 
whose  wife  was  dowdy,  made  his  way  over  to  them,  and  said 
with  a  sigh :  "  Ah,  Miss  Greyson,  it  doesn't  seem  like  six 
/ears  since  that  morning  in  the  Conneshaugh !  Who  would 
have  thought  it  ?  But  Mrs.  Rothermel,  I  beg  her  pardon, 
Mrs.  Varian,  doesn't  look  a  day  older  than  she  did  then." 

This  was  not  pleasant  to  Miss  Greyson  in  her  felt  hat, 
who  knew  that  lectures  and  teaching,  blissful  as  thej  were, 
did  not  tend  to  youthful  looks. 

u  Nor  a  day  wiser,"  said  she  with  contempt. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Davis.     "  I  think  marry* 


876  ^  PERFECT  ADONIS. 

ing  Yarian  is  a  step  beyond  marrying  Rothermel  .in  point  ol 
wisdom." 

Then  the  dowdy  beckoned  him  away  to  look  up  the  car- 
riage. She  was  always  recalling  him,  and  that  he  did  not 
get  very  far  away,  was  owing  as  much  to  her  assiduity  as  to 
his  want  of  ingenuity. 

Mrs.  Bishop  was  crying  a  good  deal,  and  got  out  of  a  side 
door  with  the  help  of  a  nephew  (not  Henry).  Poor  Henry 
was  now  in  South  America  trying  to  learn  the  ways  of  a 
great  mercantile  house,  and  saving  up  beetles  and  butterflies 
for  Missy  ;  working  with  one  part  of  his  brain,  and  dreaming 
with  the  other.  He  could  not  get  over  the  habit  of  loving 
his  love  with  a  C.  Mrs.  Bishop  had  not  more  than  half 
forgiven  Dorla,  but  it  was  very  necessary  to  her  4to  have 
some  friends  who  were  not  weary  of  her  age,  and  who  would 
fill  up  the  many  empty  hours  of  her  days,  and  Dorla  was  the 
most  conscientious  friend  she  had,  and  so  she  had  to  be 
forgiven,  wholly  or  in  part.  Felix  was  quite  resolved  this 
sort  of  thing  should  not  go  on,  after  he  had  power  to  stop 
it.  "  This  sort  of  thing,"  was  a  daily  visit  of  Mrs.  Rothermel 
to  Mrs.  Bishop,  and  endless  arrangements  for  her  comfort  or 
pleasure.  It  wa^  naturally  not  all  that  a  lover  could  ask,  to 
have  the  drive  in  the  park  daily  spoiled  by  the  addition  of 
a  cross  child  or  a  querulous  old  lady.  But  a  man  M  ho 
marries  a  conscientious  woman  must  make  up  his  mind  to 
this  sort  of  thing,  till  he  has  power  to  put  a  stop  to  it. 

Possibly  he  felt  as  if  the  time  had  come  to  put  a  stop  to 
one  nuisance  at  least,  when,  an  hour  after  the  benediction 
had  been  said  over  Dorla's  head  and  his,  he  stood  in  the  Lall 
waiting  for  her  to  come  from  her  room,  where  he  knew  she 
was  saying  good-bye  to  Missy.  The  carriage  was  at  the  door ; 
the  trunks  had  long  been  sent  away  ;  Dorla  in  her  travelling 
dress  at  last  came  down  the  stairs.  There  had  been  a 
tempest,  he  knew.  But  all  was  silent  now,  and  Dorla  was 
very  pale.  She  had  just  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 
Felix  was  saying  with  a  smile,  "  Do  people  ever  get  left  o» 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  377 

their  wedding  journeys  ?  "  when  there  was  a  rush  of  pursuer 
and  pursued,  and  Missy,  with  a  white  face,  slid  down  the 
stairs  like  a  spirit,  and  flung  herself  upon  her  mother  with 
a  cry. 

(t  Mamma !  Mamma !  " 

"  Missy,  you  will  kill  me !  "  cried  poor  Dorla ;  putting  her 
hands  up  to  her  face. 

Missy  got  her  tiny,  fierce  fingers  clutched  in  her  mother's 
dress ;  she  was  like  a  little  maniac ;  all  attempts  to  take  her 
away  without  positive  violence,  were  unavailing.  It  was 
pitiful  to  see  her.  Her  wedding  finery  had  not  been  taken 
off.  She  was  white  to  her  fingers'  ends.  Her  short,  pale 
hair  stood  out  in  a  frizz  about  her  poor,  passionate  little  face  ; 
her  ligh,t  eyes  were  full  of  an  expression  of  violent  emotion, 
strange  on  such  baby  features.  The  servants  who  had  come 
into  the  hall  to  see  their  mistress'  departure,  stood  around 
in  perplexity  and  dismay.  The  nurse  coaxed,  wrestled,  was 
despairing. 

At  last  Felix,  opening  the  hall  door,  said,  ((  We  shall  be 
late,"  and  stepped  outside. 

Dorla  said  hoarsely,  "  Missy,  I  must  go ;  good- by,"  and 
stooping  down,  with  her  own  hands  attempted  to  release 
herself  from  the  child's  grasp,  and  made  a  movement  towards 
the  open  door. 

Then  poor  little  Missy,  with  a  great  cry,  sprang  before 
lier,  and  flung  herself  upon  the  ground  across  the  threshold. 

"  For  shame,  Missy,  get  up,  for  shame !  "  cried  the  nurse, 
stooping  to  interfere.  Dorla  bent  down  and  tried  to  lift 
her  up ;  but  she  clutched  the  sill  of  the  door  with  all  her 
strength,  and  screaming  and  sobbing,  lay  face  down,  a  barrier 
between  her  mother  and  the  outer  world.  Felix  standing 
Dutside  with  lips  compressed,  looked  on  a  moment  silently. 

"  Dorla,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  put  out  his  hand. 

She  took  it,  and  stepping  over  Missy  as  she  lay,  followed 
kirn  down  the  steps  and  into  the  carriage  without  a  look 


578  A  PERFECT  ALONI8. 

behind.  The  servants  picked  up  the  little  figure  and  hustled 
her  off  into  the  house,  before  the  carriage  door  shut  after 
Felix. 

But  what  a  beginning  for  a  wedding  journey!  For  two 
minutes  Dorla  tried  to  command  herself,  but  then  she  either 
stopped  trying,  or  it  was  no  use,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Felix,"  she  said,  "  be  good  to  me  this  once ;  I  never  will 
be  so  weak  again;  just  let  me  go  back.  It  will  kill  the 
child.  I  know  she  will  be  ill  to-night.  All  alone  with  ser- 
vants— and  they  do  not  love  her — think  of  it,  Felix.  How 
can  I  go  away  and  leave  her?  " 

Then  Felix's  face  grew  very  cold,  and  he  did  not  take  the 
hand  that  she  put  out  to  him. 

"  You  are  not  angry,"  she  said,  frightened. 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  I  am,"  he  answered,  gravely.  Then 
she  turned  away  her  face,  and  tried  to  stop  her  tears.  This 
made  him  feel  sorry  for  her,  and  he  said : 

"  We  cannot  go  back,  you  must  see  that  is  impossible. 
But  we  need  not  stay  very  long  away,  nor  go  far  off  from 
the  city.  You  shall  have  a  telegram  every  hour  while  we 
are  away,  if  that  will  comfort  you." 

"  You  must  think  me  so  unreasonable,"  said  Dorla,  in  het 
tears. 

"  Well,  I  can't  deny  I  do,"  he  returned. 

"  But  Felix,"  she  said,  timidly,  "  it  would  comfort  me  to 
have  a  telegram  to-night,  to  know  whether  they  have  got 
her  pacified,  if  you  won't  be  very  much  ashamed  of  me." 

So  Felix  called  to  the  coachman,  and  stopped  at  an  office, 
and  had  arrangements  made  by  which  a  telegram  should 
reach  them  by  the  hour  of  nine ;  and  it  is  to  be  presumed  he 
felt  wrathful  and  mortified  to  have  to  give  the  order.  But 
when  he  went  back  to  the  carriage,  he  found  Dorla  looking 
relieved.  It  had  taken  a  great  load  off  her  heart  to  know 
that  she  should  hear  again  from  Missy  that  night  j  the  sepa- 
ratio  i  would  not  seem  so  monstrous,  she  would  yet  vatcb 
her  going  to  sleep,  as  sho  had  never  failed  to  do. 


A  PERFECT  ADONIS.  379 

"  It's  a  bad  beginning,"  be  said,  trying  to  smile  as  he  shut 
fche  carriage  door,  "  but  I  have  sent  a  telegram  at  the  same 
time,  countermanding  my  orders  to  Philadelphia.  We  will 
just  go  over  to —  and  maybe  we  can  get  some  decent  rooms, 
and  maybe  we  can't.  But  you'll  have  the  happiness  of 
knowing  that  you  can  get  to  Missy  in  an  hour,  if  she  does 
not  enjoy  her  bread  and  milk  without  you." 

"  Felix  !  "  cried  Dorla,  reddening  with  shame,  while  at  the 
same  time  a  weight  was  lifted  from  her  heart.  "  You  are 
better  to  me  than  I  deserve.  You  must  think  me  so  un- 
reasonable ;  but  I  can't  tell  you  how  cruel  it  seemed  to  me 
to  be  going  away,  and  leaving  poor  Missy  there  crying  in  her 
jealousy  and  misery." 

(t  She  has  often  cried  so  before,  and  it  hasn't  killed  her." 

"Ah,  yes!  but,  Felix,  it  wasn't  the  same  thing;  you 
know  I  wasn't  going  away  from  her.  She  realized  it  all." 

"  She  realized  that  she  had  a  little  extra  work  to  do,  ana 
she  flid  it.  You  see  she  conquered." 

"  I  don't  call  it  conquering,"  said  Dorla,  crying  a  little  at 
the  thought,  "  to  have  me  walk  over  her  and  go  away  with 
you.  Ah,  dear !  Tt  was  like  S.  Jane  Frances  de  Chantal 
and  her  boy." 

"  What  was  S.  Jane  Frances  de  Chantal  going  to  do  ?  " 
said  Felix,  relenting,  with  a  little  caress.  "  Had  she  been 
getting  married  ?  " 

"  O,  no,"  exclaimed  Dorla,  with  a  faint  shudder. 

"  I  suppose  saints  don't  do  that  ?  " 

"  She  was  going  away — to  found  an  order  of  nuns.  Ah ! 
it  was  very  different  from  me." 

"  Ye&,  I  should  hope  it  was,"  said  Felix,  cynically.  "  I 
may  be  a  terrible  fate,  but  I  hope  I'm  not  as  bad  as  bread 
and  water,  and  stone  floors,  and  hard  beds,  and  a  nagging  lot 
i>f  women." 

"  Ah,  Felix !     You  do  not  understand." 

"  Then  you  really  wish  you  were  on  your  way  now  to  found 
an  ordsr  of  nuns  ?  " 


380  A  PERFECT  ADONI8. 

« I  didn't  say  that." 

"  What  did  you  say  then  ?  " 

w  I  said  you  didn't  understand." 

"  Maybe  I  don't.  But  it  is  too  late  now  for  you  to  whangs 
four  mind.  You  must  make  the  best  you  can  of  what  you've 
done,  and  try  to  be  contented." 

"  AH !  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  only  too  easy !  "  said  Dor  la, 
with  another  sigL. 

"  Well."  said  Felix,  "  you  may  add  again,  that  I  do  not 
understand.  For  I'm  sure  I  don't." 

"  This  you  may  understand,  at  least,"  said  Dorla,  "  that  I 
am  not  fit  to  be  a  nun,  or  I  suppose  I  should  have  been  one. 
I  am  a  failure,  don't  you  see,  Felix.  I've  spoiled  Missy. 
I've  never  been  able  to  make  a  good  housekeeper.  I  am 
afraid  I  never  helped  poor  Harry  any.  I  don't  know  that 
I  was  ever  any  comfort  to  mamma.  And  I  wasn't — I — 
And  perhaps,  I  shall  not  make  you  happy  after  all.  I  can't 
see  what  I  was  created  for."  4 

"  I  can't  either,  except  to  make  people  want  to  possess 
you.  To  have  and  to  hold  you,"  he  said,  with  a  fierce  sort 
of  satisfaction. 

"But— "said  Dorla. 

"  But — "  said  Felix,  kissing  her. 

And  then  she  forgot  all  about  S.  Jane  Frances  de  Chan- 
tat,  and  the  Order  of  the  Visitation,  and  for  the  moment 
about  poor  Missy,  too. 

It  is  a  blessing  that  when  you  are  a  failure,  you  can  forget 
it  sometimes  for  a  while.  But  the  fact  remains  the  same. 


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